Shatter
by PanicButton
Summary: When Reid goes missing from a bloody apartment, the Feds us an emotionally unstable teenaged boy to discover where Reid has gone. Things don't go according to plan. Slash. Reid/OMC Language. Adult content.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One.

**TAP:** _To connect into secretly so as to receive the message or signal being transmitted._

That constant tap, tap, tap of fingertips on his thigh. Never stopping. Morse code? Some secret signal to someone else? Faster. Harder. Unseen by the other kids walking past in the school corridor.

Just another weirdo.

The school was full of them. Kids who just didn't seem to fit in. Not even in their own strange minds. Not even in their imaginations and dreams.

Normal.

Nothing out of place. Everything running smoothly.

Just as it should be.

'And so I told him to fuck off...' and the voice tails off, masked my giggling girls in skirts too short and too much makeup and too much mouth. The popular girls. The ones with long spray-tanned legs and slender feet. The ones who arrived at school in their own cars, or dropped off by parents, or people who were paid small amounts of money to do the job for the parents. Never on the school bus. Never. Not those sort of girls.

Tap, tap, tap...

'Did you do the essay...?' The question wasn't asked of the boy standing there drumming his fingertips on his black skinny jeans. Why would anyone ask him anything? He never spoke.

Three whole months and no one had heard a word out of him except for abusive shouting when he first started. No one bothered trying to talk to him.

He wasn't normal.

Autistic. Someone had called him that. He had just blinked at the fool and carried on with the constant drumming of those fingertips. Fingers which had long fingernails. Painted red.

He wasn't right in the head. Brain damage?

Drugs. He'd been asked that too and his eyes had narrowed and he'd licked his lips which seemed to be pouting slightly, but he'd not answered.

That Special Needs Kid... You know? That new kid. The one who never talks...

'Did you see what he was doing in English?'

'Masturbating! Rubbing himself against the table leg like a dog!'

'You want to keep away from him. He's not right in the head.'

He didn't mind. He was happy for people to avoid him. He was glad they'd stopped talking to him. He had more important things on his mind than having to form fake friendships with people who had minds on levels so far below his own that he could never actually think of anything to say to someone.

No... he wasn't autistic.

No... not always on drugs. Not at school. Not every day. At least once a week he was not high as a kite or spaced out so much that he drooled his way through Math.

That Special Needs Kid. Oh yes. He was that. That was hitting the nail on the head. Hitting it hard. Hitting it so hard that it gave him a headache and a nosebleed. Not that anyone noticed. He'd wipe the blood away with the back of his hand, keep his head down.

Concentrate. Watch and wait.

Can't let it slip by now.

Not after waiting so long.

'Out of the way, freak.' A body banged into him, pushing him into the gap between two rows of lockers. Painted a darker blue than the walls. His had a penis and balls drawn in thick black marker pen. He liked it. He'd put it there himself.

The endless drumming of the fingers stopped as he looked around at who had pushed him. Just another face in the crowd. Nothing to be alarmed about.

But he should have seen it coming! He should have known. He should have avoided physical contact.

Blue and white flooring. Squares. They didn't quite line up properly with the edge. If you looked at it for too long it made it appear that the floor was moving, bucking, upwards, moving, across... undulating, almost breathing. But it wasn't. At least he didn't think it was.

'I know you're watching me.' A hissing voice from his side, standing close, but not quite touching. Not quite that brave. But still stupid.

'Well I am now.' The voice whispered back. Dark eyes blinking. Trapped in that gap between the lockers. The fingers tapping on his thigh again. 'Thank you for the introduction. I was having a problem picking you out from amongst the hundreds of freaks.'

The slightly reddened face had an expression of deep hate. There was a nasty smell. A stink of rotting eggs and decay. The top lip pulled away from yellow teeth, One of the upper front was chipped. 'You can't stop me.' Hand stuffed into the pockets of blue jeans worn with a white Tshirt.

It was like having a discussion with a dead snake. A dead snake with no sense of fashion.

'One step in the wrong direction and you will die.' Tap, tap, tapping... the other hand in a tight fist.

'It will happen so fast that you won't be able to stop me.' Curly yellow hair. It looked like a million threads of spinning noodles on his head. Long sharp nose. Long sharp body. The sort of body that slouches and slides and lives in the dust and cobwebs in the corners, the shadows. No eyebrows. White eyelashes. Eyes so light in colour that they look absent. Deranged. Insane. There were patches of sweat under his arms... a tuft of hair showing under his arm as a hand came out of the denim pocket and rested high up on the top of the dusty lockers. That bit of hair was stared at for a moment. Ugly, dirty and sweaty hair. He could almost see droplets of yellow body fluid dripping from it. A drop of water ran down the red and hot face and dripped off that chiselled jaw and onto the blue and white floor.

'Don't blow a fuse there, Ash.' A flash of straight white teeth.

The blond boy of about sixteen, backed away. 'Don't fuck with me, Sam.'

'Tick, tick, tick... Time's up.' The dark haired boy, the one with the tapping fingers, also about sixteen – at least that's how old he looked. The one who never speaks... except for now; the one with the hair tied back with a bit of red ribbon... the one called Sam, moved away – walked out of the place he'd been standing, fingers still tapping, the other hand still in a fist.

'You can't stop me!' That hiss again... like poisonous vapour in his ear... like it was made of the gasses which came directly from hell... from home.

Sam didn't bother answering. People were beginning to turn and look. Was that the weirdo actually talking to someone? What were they saying? Was there going to be a fight? Did that yellow haired boy, Ash, say something? Who was threatening who? Should they tell someone?

Just text it to a friend.

Send a text... attach a photo of a puppy looking surprised.

BBM it to Jeanne who you will see in about five minutes on the bus going home. It can't wait! Have to do it now... don't bother looking where you're going. Damnit idiot! Get out of the way! This was important! The freak, Sam spoke to Ash! Ash of all people! That stinking trailer trash, white boy actually spoke to and got a reply from Sam Trent the weird kid who never talks! It's urgent news... and did you get that pic of my lunch?

And time moves onwards.

Not far... Just a few hours, but it is Fall and it is getting dark and Sam hasn't returned from school.

Again.

Sam does this sometimes and they don't really worry, but tonight they are standing on the front porch, looking at the grass out front of their single storey home. Painted white.

She is smoking. A woman in her middle forties. Short hair. Like a pixie, but she's got a pretty face. A small face with big dark eyes. She can take the short hair. It looks cute. She's wearing a white blouse which is tucked into bootleg cut jeans. She's a tidy woman. No makeup. A small pink mouth in naturally tanned skin. Nothing fake here. Even her tits are her own. She has white shoes. Lace up and flat. Almost like a nurse would wear, but she's not a nurse.

The man is tall. A foot taller than the woman. He's got short cropped hair, going grey at the sides, going completely on the top and he's given up trying to hide either. He's in a shirt, white with a blue stripe, open at the neck, dark blue chinos... black leather slip on shoes. He's good looking if you like square faced men with a cleft chin. It's one of those dips in the chin which can never be properly removed of all hair.

They talk quietly to each other. Slight concern on their faces. Not too much. It's not quite panic yet. Sam has been late home before.

It's the neighbours. They complain about Sam. He upsets them. They accuse him of doing things which they deny, but suspect was him.

The cat...

That dog that was always barking.

Small acts of childish vandalism. Broken fence. Mutilated flowerbed. Slashed car tyres. That sort of thing. Nothing ever proven, but yes, Sam bothered the people who wanted a quiet life because Sam was not like the other kids around here.

'To Hell with this.' The woman snaps. 'We need to call this in. It's dark.'

'I can see it's dark.' The man has a gravelly voice. He doesn't sound happy. 'He'll come home.'

'In what state? At what time? We have to know where he goes. It's part of our job.' She turns and walks back into the tidy little house.

He follows her and closes the door. Not locking it. Sam will be back soon. 'If it was possible to follow him, we'd know what he gets up to.'

'I've put in for a transfer.' She slumps on the dark red couch. 'I can't take this.' Fingers scratching at her scalp.

'A transfer? They're not going to like that. It's only been, what? Just over three months? It's going to take longer than that for him to relax enough. We'll get nothing out of him yet. You knew that. We can't start this over again. We need results.'

'He's out buying drugs and selling his body. You know that. I know that. The department knows that. What is there to learn from him?'

'Where Floyd is. Where Reid is. He will tell us. He will tell us when he feels he can trust us and that's not going to happen over night.'

'Reid is dead.' She's quite sure of that.

'Proof?' She's asked.

'I don't need any! He's disappeared with Flanders.'

'Doesn't mean he's dead.' He reminds her.

'Statistics would argue with that statement.'

'Statistics are not always correct.'

She makes a snarly sound at the back of her throat. 'I'd love a glass of wine... just sometimes. You know what I mean?'

'I know what you mean.' He sits on a big green chair, picks up the TV remote and picks out a nature show. They sit in the slow darkness and wait.


	2. BLOOD

Chapter Two.

Four Months Earlier.

**BLOOD:** _One of the four elemental bodily humors of medieval physiology, regarded as causing cheerfulness._

It is what relationships are all about.

Nothing runs smoothly.

Ever.

Not really.

And over the years Spencer had known Floyd, this was something he expected. It was what it was all about.

However that didn't change the fact that these moods of Floyd's terrified him. The murderous mood swings were not about forgetting a coaster before putting a mug down on the coffee table. They were not about coming home from work with the smell of Hotchner about him. It wasn't any of those little errors that caused what was going on now.

Spencer was cowering. He hated it. Hated to feel this way and hated to be sitting hunched up on the bathroom floor with his cords around his shins and blood on his face. He's wrapped his arms around his legs and rested his sore and throbbing face on his knees. Eyes closed. He could shut out the visuals, that was easy... just force the eyes to close. It was harder to close the ears, though. He can't shut out the howls of rage and the screams of pain coming from elsewhere in his lovely apartment.

For once it isn't him screaming. The only sound Spencer is making is a low whine, which he at first thinks was the bathroom extractor fan whirling, but no, it's him, a wet towel, bloody, where he'd had it pressed against his face to ease the cut to his brow and mouth, next to him on the floor. He'd tried putting hands over his ears – it didn't work. Nothing could stop those sounds from penetrating.

And he knows! Oh for the gods he knows that if he was anything of a man, if he had anything inside of him which wasn't the blubbering and cowering coward that he was, then he would have faced it. He would have got up off the floor, exited the bathroom he'd locked himself in, and he would have taken his gun from the drawer in the hallway and he would have used it.

Maybe on himself.

But he would have used it and some way that noise – that splattering and ripping noise would stop. Yet he _was_ the crying coward wrapped up in his own self pity on the cold, white bathroom floor.

Somehow it's worse when the noise suddenly stops.

No, always it's worse.

Floyd's sudden silence when halfway through a rage is unsettling. It's worse than the shouting, punching and kicking. It's worse than the scratching and biting.

That sudden stillness when Floyd is thinking, considering his next move.

Will he let his victim go as he had done earlier, letting him retreat to the bathroom, or will he pick up the pace – maybe just get bored and strike a final killing blow...?

That silence when all you can hear is your own terror. All you can smell is your own fear. That eerie quiet when the victim suddenly falls silent.

Spencer looks up at the bathroom door and then stares at the gap at the bottom. Waiting for someone to cast a shadow. Nothing. Somewhere a tap was dripping. Somewhere footsteps on parquet flooring and then over a rug. His Chinese rug which he bought because he thought the pattern would disguise the stains. The splatters and drips and blood spillage which so often seemed to happen in his apartment. It worked to a point.

'Spencer. Get out here.' Floyd's voice is low, husky... spent.

'I – I... I'm... yes.' A weak reply which he only just managed to spit out. He moves to his hands and knees and pulls his cords up, doing them up quickly. Floyd took his belt; chased him with it. There is no shirt to put on. That was ripped up somewhere in the kitchen – at least he thinks that's where it is. That was where Floyd threw the coffee at him. He is sure.

A quick look around the bathroom shows more blood than he thought could have come from him, but as he is the only person in the bathroom, he must have been wrong. It is smeared on the edge of the toilet rim, hand-prints on the floor where he'd been crawling, drips on the edge of the bath, sprayed up the side of the shower cubical, smeared on the wall by the door and on the door. On the door handle. Tentatively he touches his face. Maybe he was bleeding more than the thought he had been. A quick look back at the bloody towel showed him he had indeed been pouring the stuff out of his body. A nose bleed? Probably. He can't remember.

'Spencer! The fuck out here now!' A shout. That huskiness is gone. Was that good or bad? Spencer didn't know and didn't want to guess.

'Yes.' He replies as his hand turns the lock. His fingers feel disembodied. He's not sure they really belong to him any more. He wants to say more. He wants some sort of warning as to what he'd see when he opens the door, but his brain is not allowing words forming in his head to reach his vocal cords. A dysfunction of some type. Something which happened when he was under stress. His voice suffered. The door pulled inwards and at first glance out into the dimly lit passage there is nothing to be seen. Slowly he steps out, glancing at the drawer where he keeps his gun, but no, proof... if you wanted it, there it is. If you doubted it, then again, there is the evidence. He had no real intention of taking the gun.

The fury... that blind, cold horrific fury Floyd would unleash if he walked in with a gun. Not worth it!

The lounge.

Spencer just stands looking at the mess. His possessions damaged, destroyed... wrecked and broken. The flimsy curtains hanging there looking like nothing had happened – if you ignored the blood spray. The body laying face up over the coffee table was something. That couldn't be ignored. Arms thrown back, chest still, legs bent at the knees, splayed out. A deathly blueness of the open lips and that open eyed stare.

'Sam?' Spencer manages to push the words out. 'Floyd... w – wh – wha – w...' Then he gives up. What is the point in asking why Floyd has done that to Sam? There was no point because there was no reason. He walks on legs which don't want to move, his knees seem to have locked into place, keeping him upright, so he moves in slow jerking movements towards the body laying over the coffee table. There is a hole in the side of Sam's head. That was where the dripping sound was coming from. Spencer leans forwards. It feels as though the world suddenly goes into a deathly spin. He can feel his balance going and the only thing to reach out at and grab is Sam. Spencer heard the cry come from his own mouth. He felt his knees giving way.

Of course it wasn't the first time he'd seen a dead body. He'd seen and touched and sniffed and inspected many... very many. Too many. But this was Sam who he'd seen walking and talking not so long ago. This was Sam laying over his... HIS coffee table in _his_ apartment. Sam had walked in and disturbed him and Floyd. He'd walked in half way through an argument. A tiff which though painful because of the hot coffee, would have blown over with kisses and gentle touching. Sam had walked in without knocking, having stolen a key from the gods only knew where and laughed.

This was the end result.

'He's going to be fine.' Floyd says.

Spencer turns to look at him, his hands still pressed down on that unmoving chest. Fine? He was going to be fine? That was probably his brain dripping onto the Chinese rug! How the hell will he be fine? But they were words trapped in his head. Slowly he removes his hands from the warm flesh and runs his tongue over the split in his bottom lip. His stomach churns when he actually looks at Floyd. Nothing new there. It usually did... different reasons at different times. This time it was because of the the way Floyd was looking right back at him.

'We need to get out of here.' Floyd puts a hand out to Spencer, who drags his eyes away from Floyd and looks down at his hand, where just a second ago he'd been able to feel Sam.

'We need to leave.' Floyd is saying... now grabbing Spencer's hand and pulling him to his feet. 'Get a bag packed.'

He wants a shower. He wants to call an ambulance. He wanted to get Sam some help even if it _is_ too late. Spencer doesn't want to run away. He can't. Not again. Too many times he'd done that. Too many times. He turns again to look at Sam. The dripping has stopped. It looks as though there were some broken ribs. There is a bubble of blood on Sam's lips...

It pops.

Another forms.

He must still be breathing, though that was impossible.

Two bubbles form.

Pop, pop.

A terrible sound. Like something from nightmares. A growling whine, picking up pitch and volume.

'Shut up that stupid noise and get things. Five minutes. Five... Count them off... hurry!'

Why such a hurry? Couldn't they just get Sam some help? Couldn't they clean up? Spencer is being dragged into the bedroom. The bed-covers are pulled back. The bottom sheet is dirty. The pillows still have indents from the night before. Dirty clothes are on the floor... a sock sitting alone on the top of the chest of drawers... another sock, matching – oddly – on the small cane chair. A bag is being thrust into his hands. Things being shoved into it. He sees his keys, passport, wallet, spare socks, green shirt, grey waistcoat, underwear, a Tshirt with a pumpkin on the front, another pair of trousers and then the bag is being taken from him, zipped up and Spencer is being given a shirt and jacket. His shoes are in the hallway. He will have to wear matching socks... maybe he'd been wearing them before. Perhaps this was why this had happened.

'We can't leave Sam there.'

'For sure we can.' Floyd tells him. 'Are you ready? Want to wash your face? You look like you've been in a fight, Babes... such a mess... to such a pretty face.' But Floyd's lip are curled. He doesn't mean it. He'd told Spencer a year or so ago that he was too old for him now. He isn't what he liked. The only part of Spencer he still needed was Spencer's willingness to do whatever he was told. 'Let's go. I've got the bike.'

Spencer would rather be sitting in the comfort of a car. Warmer... wrapped up in leather seats and a blast of hot air. A bit of music playing. Classical... A world he could sink into and forget what had happened at the apartment, but the bike? Spencer sighs... If it was by car then he'd have to drive. Floyd's driving is not something he wanted to experience tonight. Not right now. More death is not on the agenda. The bike it will have to be.

The following day Sam is found. A neighbour discovers him flopped on the floor half out of Spencer's apartment door. He is rushed to hospital whilst forensics have a fun time trying to figure out what had happened.

Reid is missing. This they know.

The blood in the bathroom belonged to Reid. They know this too.

Some of the blood in the hallway is his – probably from when he walked out of the bathroom. Bloody footprints let them see that. The blood in the lounge belongs to Sam, who managed to mutter something about Floyd. Match all the dots... make a random pattern... include Floyd and Spencer and know, without fail, that Floyd had beaten the shit out of Spencer and Sam and then taken Spencer somewhere. It was that _somewhere_ that they were trying to discover.

Sam healed quickly. Far too quickly for it to be anything but unsettling. The injury to his head was all but gone within a week. The caved in chest, still a bit caved in, but he was breathing and walking and seeing and hearing... he was just not talking. Often.

They knew he understood what was being said. He was just refusing to answer anything.

He had no answers. Floyd had beaten the living hell out of him and he had been dead.

That was not something he could tell the doctors, now was it? People didn't just come back to life. It was not possible.

Not unless you made some quick deal with some dark, not quite substantial creature and said you'd do a job for them in return for being alive again and with a soul. Who would believe such crap? No one. Maybe Floyd would, but it wasn't Floyd asking where Reid was. Sam had no idea! Not a damned clue. They could ask all they wanted, but it wasn't Floyd he needed right now. He'd get his own back on that bitch later... right now he needed to stay alive and that meant he was on a job.

A few uttered words. 'I just want to be normal. To live with a mother and father. To go to school and be just _That Kid_... it rang all the correct bells. 'I'm sorry causing this fuss.' He cried. 'I just want to be normal, you know? Have friends and do normal stuff.' He didn't need to say more.

Poor boy. Abused all his short life. Never loved. Never wanted. Put him in some programme. Keep him part of the Federal Game. Give him the parents he wants, the school he craves. Give him all he needs to feel happy and secure.

'When Sam can see what it's like to be normal, he'll give up Flanders and we'll discover what has happened to Reid.'

'If only to bury him.' Someone muttered.

'He's still alive.' Hotch.

'We hope.' Rossi.

'I'm sure Spencer is happy cooking burgers on a barbecue and drinking beer with Floyd on a weathered porch by the lake.' Said no one.

Spencer's teeth are chattering. It is cold. The sort of cold where your face goes numb, which for Spencer is not necessarily a bad thing. His face is a mess, it seems. If he can take that look on Floyd's face as an answer. His right eye is almost shut. Fingertip inspection tells him he has a black-eye. It feels sticky. Vision not right in that eye, but this has happened before. It would heal. Spencer knew Floyd would never do anything to mar his _good looks_ – Though those fade with age, it seems. If you took what Floyd said as truth. And today, Spencer did.

They stand next to the bike. Floyd fiddling with something in a pannier. Neither speak. There is too much to say and Spencer doesn't know where to start and Floyd doesn't seem to be in a talking mood and so Spencer stands with arms wrapped around himself in his usual protective manner and his teeth chattering and his face feeling as though it was a mask. His lip hurts. His chin hurts. His arms ache and his shoulders feel stiff. And he has a blocked nose.

Fiddle, fiddle with something and then Floyd turns to look. 'You're cold?' A surprise? It is October and they've been riding on the bike for hours. Yes he is cold!

'Not really.' He answers.

'Liar.' Floyd smirks back at him. 'When will you learn that I know a lie easier than I know...' He pauses and looks around for inspiration and finds none. 'Well easy, anyway.' He then gestures towards a small diner. The OPEN light is a red, flickering neon. The light inside the place looks yellowish and dim. Spencer doesn't really want to go in there. He is sure they have bad hygiene and Floyd will make him eat and drink coffee and Spencer doesn't want to risk stomach upset as well as hurting where he'd been attacked – quite rightly too! He'd failed to put sugar in Floyd's coffee. He'd deserved it. Spencer thought, really, when push comes to shove – as they say, that he'd done it for that purpose. He wanted to be slapped. He wanted to feel something inside where he was always as numb as his face was feeling.

'Your nose if red. Your lips are going blue. A coffee and pancakes?' Floyd pushes Spencer in the direction of the diner.

'Is – is it... you know – safe?' Spencer asks as he starts to do the walk of doom towards the grubby place.

'Safe?' Floyd questions Spencer. 'In what way, safe?'

'Should we show faces? Here? They'll be looking for us?'

Floyd stops and wipes his fingers down the front of his black waistcoat. 'Looking for us? For why?'

'We're running...?'

'We are? I thought we were going on vacation.' Floyd pats Spencer on the arm. All friendly, like.

'But... but... what?' Spencer turns his back on the diner and looks at Floyd carefully. Is he being serious. It is sometimes so hard to tell. 'Sam?'

'Sam is fine! I told you he'd be fine. Don't worry yourself over him. This – this what we're doing has nothing to do with Sam. Never will have anything to do with Sam. I'm done with that little shit. Never again. Just us. The pair of us. Doing stuff. Alone. Without Sam. Without Hotchner, without any of that damned crew. Just you and me.' Floyd can see the confusion drifting over that bruised face.

'I thought we were running.'

'Don't be such a child, Spencer. You're such a fucking moron sometimes. Would I bring you here if we were running from something?'

Spencer guesses not, which was why he is so surprised to be here and not in the middle of the woods somewhere sitting under a tree and nibbling on acorns. 'Then I can call and let people know I'm...'

'Call? As in use a telephone? No... try that and I'll break both your hands. Now let's go and have coffee. I need coffee. Exhausting work earlier. I need a top up.'

They drink coffee. It doesn't seem necessary to hurl it at anyone. The red padded bench seats are vinyl. A bit sticky in places. Laying at the edge of the window, legs in the air, a dead fly. Only one. Was that a good sign or not. Spencer stares at it for a while. It's fat body glimmering like a a chip of obsidian. What sort of master would craft something so strange? He is about to reach out and touch it with a slightly shaking finger when pancakes are slapped down in front of him. A white plate. Syrup spilling over the edges of the food and gathering around the edges. His stomach growls with delight, but his brain is still thinking of the fly and wondering where it had been, what it had seen, what adventures it had had and if they involved the food in this grubby, yellow lit hole.

'Thank you.' Automatic words which fall out of his mouth without having to think of them. Those sort of words are easy to say. They were stored in a different part of his brain. The quick fire, safe, loyal part of his brain. He looks over at Floyd who is sitting drumming his fingers on the Formica table top...sky blue, with little glittery bits of gold. There seems to be something purposeful about what Floyd is doing. Is it to annoy him? Because if it is, then it was working.

'Eat.' Floyd glances at the plate of food and then up at Spencer. 'Eat it.'

The words he wanted to reply with jam. It is a bottleneck of confusion there in his head. The words jumbled together, pushing and shoving and falling back... getting trampled in their attempt to reach Spencer's voice.

'W – wh...' And he stops. There is no point in even trying. It would only annoy Floyd and today he doesn't want to be slapped. Today he wanted to be held and loved and needed.

Where had _that_ imbecilic thought come from? Be loved? Be needed? By Floyd? Well that isn't going to happen any time soon. Not the sort of need Spencer feels he himself needs. Floyd gives a very different sort of need. Held... to be held tightly... not with hands around his neck, not with a knee pressed into his groin, not with obscenities being spat at him with clove scented breath.

'If you just say what you want and stop trying to ask for what you can never have, then perhaps it would be easier for you.' Floyd picks up Spencer's fork and waves it under his nose. 'Sam is not in danger. Is that what you were going to ask?' The fork carries on waving there, threatening to stab into Spencer's mouth, scrape over his gums, dig into his tongue. He moves slowly and without touching Floyd's dirty hands, takes the fork from him.

'I wasn't thinking about S – S – S...' That was enough. Floyd will understand. He understood a lot of Spencer's splatterings of words and letters and then the sigh at the end. He didn't have to finish the sentence. Not just today, not ever. Not for a long time now.

'What were you thinking about then? I would have imagined that you'd be concerned about the corpse we left on the coffee table.'

Spencer sticks the fork into the pancakes. It makes a slippery, deadly sort of sound. He looks again at the dead fly and then back at Floyd. 'He wasn't dead.' Spencer tells him. 'He was still breathing.'

'Good. No need to worry then. Eat.' The last word is accompanied by a kicking under the table. Floyd's booted foot cracking into Spencer's shin. Just once, but once is always enough.

'I was... I... where... It's just...' Another sigh. He decides that the best thing to do is to eat the things and get it over with. Once back on the bike he'd not have to speak. He could keep quiet and try to un-jumble his brain.

'You want to know where we're going? Ah... I have a place. Somewhere to stay. Forensics will be all over your place. Yellow tape... they'll question Sam, I would think. He'll say nothing though. I have that on good authority. He'll not say what happened. That's neither good nor bad... they may even assume you did it? No?... You're right. No... they'll check out the fucking security tapes, see they're blank, know I was there. But they will know that the bike is gone and your car is sitting pretty in its parking space. So... they might be looking for me. That could be the case, but Sam will not press charges. You know he won't. I know he won't. We are not in any sort of trouble, but the apartment is off limits for a while... They'll be crawling all over your stuff, looking at what you read, inspecting your laptop – they'll get that fat, four-eyed bitch on that.'

'Garcia.' Spencer mutters. He's eaten a couple of bites of the food. He won't have to finish it. He knows that. Floyd will run out of patience – it's not all that enduring.

'Garcia... that's what I said isn't it? The fat one who eats ice cream and thinks she's your BFF.'

'My what?' Spencer is holding his fork near to his mouth, a sort of square of drippy pancake attached and waiting to be eaten.

'A friend. She thinks she's your friend.'

'Ah...' The food goes into his mouth. Chew, chew.

'Anyway, she'll be trawling through your stuff, discovering your gay porn.'

'What?' A quick swallow of food. He takes a sip of coffee to help it down and stop him from choking or spitting chewed pancake over the table at Floyd.

'The gay porn. She'll find that.'

'I don't have any!' The mug is banged down on the table. Some slops over the edge and runs down the side of the white mug, drying in the heat as it pools into a little ring of sticky stuff on the table.

'Not as such.' Floyd is staring at the mess Spencer is making. Make a mess with blood and it's fine. Not a problem. Make a mess on a table and Floyd could possibly become pissed off. 'I do.' Floyd lets Spencer know. 'Have porn on your laptop.'

'Fantastic.' Spencer picks up a paper serviette and cleans up the mess he's made with the coffee.

'I thought so. Sweet. See how well you're managing to communicate with me now? It's simple isn't it? Once you stop fretting over things which don't matter.'

'Gay porn on my work laptop actually does matter.'

'Not to me.' Floyd shrugs. 'A couple of days will get us to where we're going. I know along route that there are places to stop off at. Motels. That sort of place. Backwoods – quiet – murderously silent at times, yet we will enjoy it – you and I. This is breakfast. Well stop for lunch. One thing I cannot abide is the sound of your stomach gurgling against my spine. Drink the coffee. The sugar will keep you going until we next stop. Why? Why are you giving me that look of yours? That look which tells me that for some reason these circumstances are not desirous?'

Spencer pushes the pancakes away and once more glances at the dead fly. Like himself, very much like himself, when he dies there will be no one to mourn. He'll likely die in some far forgotten gully or gutter, an indentation in the forest and there he will lay, rotting, until swept away by the seasons. He drags his eyes away from the thing and looks at Floyd. Eyes as dark as the obsidian of the dead fly.

'It's...' Oh... that was all he was going to be able to say, so he prods at the soggy tissue paper he'd used to wipe up the coffee and then picks it up, places it on top the remains of his food and forgets trying to talk. Forgets the image of himself laying alone and rotting. The images have clogged everything. Even his ability to stand. He holds his hands out for Floyd to see. They're shaking. They're touched my Floyd's fingertips which have dirty nails, long, sharp nails... the left hand thumbnail has been carefully serrated. Spencer knows that it's as sharp as a razor. He knows it's deadly and he looks at it and wonders how many lives that thumbnail has taken. It makes him shiver.

'You're shaking.' Floyd releases Spencer's hands and his face twitches slightly. 'You're not cold, so I'm assuming you're afraid. Of me?'

Spencer licks his lips. He can taste coffee, sugar, maple syrup. He doesn't answer. There's no need. Floyd knows that Spencer is afraid. Afraid of what is going to be found on the laptop, afraid of death. Afraid of loss.

Floyd understands this. 'I'm not going to abandon you.'

'I know.' It's a whisper and again one of those automated responses which he spits out without having to think about it.

'Then what is it you're afraid of?'

'Dying.' Spencer manages to say. Again his voice is so low it was not much more than a sigh.

'Everything has a code embedded.' Floyd replies. 'Animal, plant... everything with a genetic code and with a cycle. It all dies. There's no point in being worried about when your time is up... is there? And you know I can cheat the codes. I have it here.' Floyd taps his forehead. 'What you need to be afraid of, deadly afraid of, is if _I _die. I've said I'll not abandon you and I won't. Not because I can't see that my life would be more enjoyable somewhere else, because I suspect it might well be, but because I've worked hard to get us to where we are. It's taken a lot of time, Spencer... starting right back... a long time back.' He pauses and touches Spencer's split lip with one of those dirty fingers which smell like unwashed armpits and old coffee. 'It saddens me beyond words... that you are ageing. My beautiful sweet. That delightful innocence. It's no longer there. Shall we leave.'

'If innocence is gone. It's because you ripped it from me.' Not a stutter... smooth words which he means.

'Sucked it from you.' Floyd gives a smirk.

Lunch is a cheese sandwich, which again Spencer can't bring himself to actually eat. He nibbles around the edge of it as Floyd stands watching... watching until it's obvious that Spencer doesn't want it and then it's slapped from Spencer's hands with an action which was like swatting a fly. Then they journey onwards, in silence. No words exchanged even when the sandwich was being nibbled.

And Spencer knows that it's winding Floyd up and he would love to stop this stupidity and actually seem as though he was appreciating the effort Floyd was putting into this, because Floyd was thinking about Spencer and food and his need to piss every five minutes and Floyd wasn't complaining about this. Not saying a word and it's that dreadful silence and Spencer's inability to find the right words, or any words to say to Floyd. He mouths the words _Thank You_ but it's just a movement of the lips because the voice is on lock-down and Floyd seems to know. He's not nagging. He's not sulking – because Floyd can sulk to a very serious degree – there is just a knowing silence.

Actually Floyd is thinking.

He had seen the way Spencer was looking at a dead fly. He would have asked what it was that was fascinating about the dead thing, but Floyd knows when Spencer isn't going to talk more than spitting out the occasional vowel or consonant and today is one of those days. It had, in actuality been one of those weeks, months, lifetimes... it is hard to put a finger on it. Spencer just clammed up sometimes. Stress. Floyd knew it as associated with Spencer's stress levels, but today? Today, free on the bike, being fed and watered and kept safe. What was there to be stressed about?

No point in asking. He didn't want his face splattered with Spencer's drool which accompanied his strange speech. He decided to leave it until tonight. He was sure by then Spencer would find his voice. Floyd was very certain that Spencer would have something to say about what was going to happen.

Again that slight wriggle and the tightening of the fingers on his chest. Floyd pulled over the bike, said nothing and let Spencer piss in peace.

Watching though. Not that he often watched men have a piss. It wasn't his particular perversion, no, it wasn't that, it was the closeness of Spencer's head to the tree. How easy it would be to creep up behind him and smash at pretty face into the wood.

Holding up his hands in front of his face, eyes shut, Floyd allows it to play out in his mind. Let's himself be pulled along by his little imaginings. It quickens his heart. It makes his skin tingle. It causes an itch right at the back of his nose, where even Sam wouldn't be able to reach with his long, long fingernails.

Not that Floyd let Sam scratch the inside of his nose. You don't know what else Sam had been scratching or where those little sweaty hands had been.

The thought of Sam's hands going places makes Floyd feel rather uncomfortable. He tightens his stomach muscles. Feels his balls begin to heat... his prick become swollen and he'd would get Spencer to come relieve his discomfort, but Spencer seems to just be standing there looking at him. Saying nothing, but Floyd thinks that Spencer assumes that this discomfort, which is fairly obvious to anyone who knows Floyd even partially, that it is him, Spencer, who has caused this reaction.

Floyd doesn't correct him.

'Just a quicky.' Floyd gestures to his own groin. 'I can't ride the bike like this.' Now Floyd points to the ground in front of him where he wants, needs, Spencer to kneel. 'I wasn't going to ask... yet this is a situation I think you can easily rectify with a quick bit of sweet mouth.'

There was no argument.

It's actually a relief for Spencer too, in a different sort of way. Floyd still needed him. All the time he was needed, he was safe. What's worse? Giving the man you fear and adore above everything a quick blow at the roadside? On his knees... popping buttons, undoing a belt with the words CUNT embossed in the buckle... or is death worse? Maybe not death in a material sense but in a psychological sense.

He felt wanted.

He felt needed.

That is all Spencer can expect today at the roadside.

A quiet road. No one will see

And actually Floyd is yelping and pulling at Spencer's hair before he's done much more than a quick lick.

It's messy.

Spencer is handed a wad of tissue.

The motel is not bad!

It's a genuine smile Spencer has on his face. A real delight. There's even a small kitchenette. Somewhere to make coffee. Soap in a shower room, no tub, but hey... This is Floyd... showers are more his thing.

Sitting on one of the beds, Spencer fingers his face again. It's not as bad now. A day in the fresh air has cooled the wounds. Maybe the mouthful he got earlier was healing too. Maybe.

Floyd stands in the doorway, smoking, drinking, scratching his arse... not talking. It's not a romantic setting, but maybe something could be clawed back.

'Shall I make coffee?' Spencer manages to say without having to slap himself to get the words out.

'If that's what you want.' Floyd has a hip-flask. He turns to look into the room and considers Spencer for a moment. Tosses the hip-flask in his direction. Tells him to help himself. Says he won't be long... just a while. There's something he needs to do.

'Don't leave the room' And the cheroot is spat out onto the walkway outside, it's left to smoulder. The door is slammed and Spencer is left alone and confused. He doesn't know what he's done wrong. He's done everything asked of him.

Maybe a shower?

Yes... he walks, with a slight limp. His knee is throbbing. Too long sitting on the bike, clinging on, hoping not to fall off the back. He isn't sure Floyd would notice if he did. So he takes a shower. Washes his hair in some generic shower and hair stuff. He'll not be able to do a thing with it! His hair is a mess at the best of times. Never looks clean. Floyd likes it long, Spencer likes it on his collar... work likes him to look less like trailer trash and more like business. It's just on his collar now... well it would be if he had a shirt on. He's pulled on his pumpkin Tshirt and sits staring at a television that doesn't seem to work.

A few mouthfuls of drink and he's relaxing.

He doesn't need to know what Floyd is up to, yet he saw the look he gave the guy behind the reception desk.

Spencer saw the look which went between the pair of them.

They know each other.

Obviously Floyd had been here before. He'd not just have pulled in and not known.

And he knew that blond guy with the pouting mouth and perky nipples pressed against a tight black Tshirt. They knew each other. Spencer didn't need to have special powers to know that.

Secret signals sent... by smell, probably... maybe it was all prearranged.

But Floyd was out getting arse from someone and it wasn't him... not Spencer.

He flops back onto the bed and looks at the blotchy ceiling and tries to make out faces amongst the textured plaster and lumps.

Spencer lays there thinking about how he can sneak out and make a phone call to someone. Get a rescue. Not that he was kidnapped. He wasn't locked in the room. He could just walk out.

But he doesn't.

He doesn't want to see.

He can't bear the thought of seeing Floyd with that pretty young man who looked more like a girl than a boy. Maybe he was. Perhaps it was a girl with a very flat chest, which was insanity itself. Floyd would not go with a girl. Not even a flat chested one.

At least Spencer was sort of comforted by that. Competition from a female would be harder to deal with. He couldn't offer what a woman has. He can and will offer whatever some young slag in a back-woods motel has to offer. Spencer knows what Floyd likes. He can make the man yelp and writhe. He can do tricks which he knows will have Floyd _done_ in seconds. Spencer is almost proud of that skill.

Not something to put on record at work.

Not something to boast about with Morgan when he's going on and on and on about girls and how many he's had...

'Hey Morgan... I'll bet you a hundred bucks I can have you howling in under twenty seconds.'

No... he'd not ever be able to make that boast, even though he's very sure of it. Very sure of himself when it comes to fellatio. The gods know... he's had enough practice.

Spencer runs his fingers over the velvety feel of the bed cover.

There is something else Spencer knows... pretty well knows.

He's quite sure.

Floyd is taking him somewhere to kill him.

Falls asleep.

He hadn't meant to, but the light flickering on and the door being closed, rouses him from a sleep where he was dreaming about blond haired men and big black attack dogs. It was not a dream of raptures, that's for sure.

Floyd is sitting on the other bed, just looking at him. There's blood under Floyd's nose.

'Nose...' Spencer manages before realising that his words are stuck again. It's not a problem though. Floyd understands and wipes the side of his hand under his nose and looks at the red smear left there.

'Nose bleed.' Floyd gives a small smile. Almost genuine. Only almost. 'I fucked that blond.'

Spencer blinks. 'Dead?'

'No... he's going to need a cushion to sit down for the next few days. I kissed him better.'

Spencer doesn't need details of that sort. He rolls onto his side, putting his back to Floyd. He feels stinging in his eyes. Right now, laying here on the bed, would not be a good place to start crying like The Little Lost Girl, he feels he is. He squeezes his eyes shut and makes a small _erp_ sound when he feels Floyd sit on the bed behind him.

'I wish you'd relax enough to talk to me.' Floyd tells him. 'You've washed your hair? Showered. Nice. Nice smell.' Spencer can't see Floyd's face. It's not looking happy. It's looking bored. Maybe tired. 'For the love of fuck, don't cry. It was just a fuck. Nothing to it apart from somewhere to stuff my dick. What's the problem? It's like having a wank and not having to use my hands. Don't try to tell me you don't jerk off when I'm not around.'

Spencer rolls back over to his back and lays there concentrating on the lumps on the ceiling again. 'You could have me... you don't need to go elsewhere?' It sounds like whiny moan.

'I will make a new life for us. Away from the shit. Away from the people who always get in our way. I need it to be private. I wish to sit in a chair for the next fifty years and do nothing but watch you slowly age. Die... I'll bury you. Mark the place. I'll do it right.'

How sweet of him.

'Why?' Spencer's voice sounds choked. Dull... low. He's gritting his teeth... Muscles in his jaw are working.

'Why what?' Floyd looks at the eyes which look back. One tear runs down Spencer's face. 'Why watch you die? What else am I meant to do, Spence? I can't let you go. I just can't do that. I can't see you walk away and not have to pull you back to me. I equally can't kill you. I can take you close. I often do, but I pull you back each time. Actual death by my hands or by another, it's not going to happen. It's going to be old age, my sweet... my dearest love... and do you have any idea how much that thought is already killing me inside? What it's doing to me? How much that hurts?'

'You fucked... the... b b b b...'

'Blond.' Floyd helped out.

'Bitch.' Spencer corrected.

'Yes I fucked it. I will do again if I come across it. That doesn't answer the problem of what I'm going to do with you... does it? Seeing you die will destroy me.'

'Bull...'

'Right. It won't destroy me, but it will waste fifty fucking years of my life. Do you want my protection? Do you want me to keep you alive?'

'Yes.'

'Then stop bitching at me. Stop moaning. Stop assuming all I do is bad. Sam had a purpose. He still does. He's serving it. I trained him. He's a soldier, Spencer. He's going to go kill stuff... earn the soul he's after. We made deals. I got the bad end of the bargain. I got you.'

'Thank you.' Spencer rolls onto his side again. Away from Floyd. He doesn't understand.


	3. CONFRONTATION

Chapter Three.

Now.

**CONFRONTATION:** _A state of conflict between two antagonistic forces, creeds, or ideas etc._

It's the screaming from outside that alerts them that Sam has arrived home. If home is the right word. They both think that maybe it's not quite what Sam considers it, but they are up out of their seats and pulling open the door out onto that front porch and the noise raises a level.

Sam is kneeling on the grass making the noise. An unearthly wail which they've heard before. It's as though demons are ripping their way through him. It's not natural. It couldn't be.

Mrs. Moore from across the street is standing there in her purple dress which comes to just above her fat knees and a pair of fluffy pink slippers. Hands on her hips. A grey face with grey hair. Miserable woman with nothing better to do with her days and nights but complain about Sam. She seems to have targeted him and considering the noise he's making right now, no one is all that shocked that he is the target.

'Don't touch him.' The square faced feebie wishes he had his gun strapped on, but he hasn't. Parents of kids like Sam don't carry pistols on their hips. Not usually. 'Give him space. Step back.' He's talking to Moore who is telling him what he should be doing and how this is wrong and asking what is wrong with the boy that he has to do that? Not the sound. She's not talking about that noise because that has stopped now. Sam has fallen silent. He has one hand on the ground in front of him, his fingers digging down into the earth, the other hand is on the side of his head, drumming out his strange tune onto his skull.

'Five.' It's such a hiss of a sound that it might have not happened, but Sam said it. They all listened.

'Five what? Grams? Is he on drugs?' Moore is asking now. A step back, off the grass, she's on the sidewalk, not bothering to look for cracks she might step on and curse her children with.

'Minutes.' Anne tells her. 'He needs five minutes.' The agent pauses, glances at Vick and then looks at Moore again. 'Would you like to come in for a moment? Have a chat? Coffee?'

'No...' It's like Anne in her perfect shirt and with her sweet hair has asked for something impossible. 'I'd rather not.' Another step back and her foot slides off the curb and into the road. The hands come off her ample hips and swing to the side, but Vick is there with his chinos and striped shirt and he's grabbing her.

'Be careful.' He warns. Maybe it has a duel meaning because she rips herself away from him.

'I'll make calls. I'll not have this. I'll have that boy locked away.'

'Please do.' Vick mutters. It's sounds like a conspiracy. Moore flinches. 'Next time you twitch your curtains or stand watching for Sam... maybe I'll make a call too. Harassment. I think that will be enough.'

She spins away from Vick and his chin and walks quickly to her own house.

'She has a point.' Anne is saying when he is close enough that the whole street can't hear her. 'We are not controlling him as we should.' And she shrugs. 'I hate this job.' She leaves Sam kneeling in the grass and walks back to the small white house, leaving the door open... she walks through the length of the house to Sam's room and opens the door. She knows.

She knows that Sam will not want to touch anything. He'll not even open a door. Not today. She could tell by that tapping hand. It was one of Sam's _tells_... he did it a lot. A lot more often recently and it bothered her. Was he going to kill them in their sleep...? Was he more dangerous than they'd been told. They'd actually been told very little about him. He knew Flanders. He'd been with him. He knew where he was and he knew what had happened to Reid. But dangerous?

She peered into Sam's room. It looked normal apart from the bars on his window and the matter of the metal door which was covered in a veneer of wood to disguise it.

Posters on the wall. Dark. Depressive. Apart from that the room felt impersonal. A mock up. Something temporary. That worried her more than it worried Vick. He seemed to think it was normal. Anne didn't. It felt as though if she stepped over the threshold her soul would be sucked away by something hiding under the bed.

A sigh... she walks back to her own room, straps on her gun. Puts on a jacket to cover it. That feels better. Feels more like she is FBI. Feels safer.

'He's in his room' Vick tells her when she comes out of her bedroom. 'A bad day for him.'

'He's high.' She snaps back. 'This isn't going to work. He won't even let us touch him. How are we meant to gain his confidence?'

Vick smiles and nods. 'We already have. He went quiet when he knew we were there. He spoke to us. It's working.'

'Not fast enough. One word, once a week? That's hardly a deep conversation, is it?'

Anne drives Sam to school the next day. He's not eaten anything. She makes a fuss about it. Asks if he has lunch money, but Sam has fallen silent again. He won't even look in her direction. She wants to ask what is bothering him. Wants him to talk to her and tell her what is making him the way he is, but she doesn't. She gives him sideways glances and he sits with his feet on the dashboard in front of him, picking at the stitching on the crotch of his jeans. He's wearing the same as the day before. He's not showered. He's not washed or cleaned his teeth. He's not eaten or had a drink as far as she can tell. She even said he need not go to school today.

'Have a day off. Relax.'

But he'd ignored her, walked out to the car and stood there waiting. She gave in and took him anyway.

'I'll pick you up when school is out. I don't want you wandering off. I worry.'

'Screw you, bitch.' He says, which shocks her so much, not because of the words but because he said more than _one_ word... she jumps, slams on the brakes and makes Sam go _umph_ as the seat belt stops him from flying through the windscreen feet first and snapping his legs.

A car honks from behind, but her hands are shaking and tingling. A rush of adrenaline. Sam is glaring at her. Slowly she moves off again.

'I'm just trying to help.' She mutters. Maybe he'll say more. He does.

'I don't need your fucking help, cunt.'

Well that answered that question.

'No need to use that language.' She tells him as she pulls over where other parents are disgorging their children.

'Later then.' And he just sits there waiting for her to get out, walk around the car and let him out. Bloody obnoxious brat. She would love to slap him. Grind her fist into his smart mouth. Take that look off his pretty face.

He gets out of the car, but stands, not moving out of the parking area. Stares off ahead. Something has happened. There's a crowd forming. The sound of crying, maybe? Anne thinks about going over and investigating, but she would be tempted to reveal that she's FBI and this Sam business is all fake. A game. She puts the car into drive and giving Sam one last look, moves off as sirens are heard in the distance.

Was someone dead?

An accident?

An attack?

She could telephone the school later and find out. The good thing was that it was not something Sam had done. Anne knew that. She pulled up outside a shop, popped in for cigarettes. She wanted to just sit alone and smoke and figure out what she needed to do. This job stank. It was boring. Not what she'd expected at all.

Emergency crews over by one of the school buses. Sam stands and watches, still not moving from his place. People are moving off, going in to the school. He can just about see from where he's standing, someone, some_thing_ covered, being put into the back of an ambulance. Sam licks his lips, taps his fingers on his leg and nods.

He knows it has started.

He knows he should have been here earlier.

That bitch... that cunt of an Agent dawdled. He wanted to be here early but she just faffed around making toast, drinking coffee, not doing what he wanted her to do!

Now this... it had begun and he was too late to stop it.

Sam bites down on his bottom lip, looks over at the stream of people, huddled, going into the building. Now he'd have to wait. He can't walk in there with all those people pushing and talking. He needs space.

The blue lights disappear.

Someone is crying. Someone is being driven away by a parent. Too distressed to stay at school. Poor lamb. At least she will be safe. Safer. Safer than staying here today.

He's ready. Walking up the steps at the front of the school.

'You're going to be late. Get a move on.' Old grey haired man is yapping at him. Fucking retard. He knows he's late! Much too late.

Double doors swing open, he looks down at his feet on the familiar blue and white flooring. There must have been an offer at the store the day these were purchased. He doesn't bother with his locker. There's no time to put his backpack somewhere safe. He has to locate Ash and stop him. It's what he's meant to be doing.

A little help would have been nice!

'Get in class.'

He ignores it. Can't be bothered to argue. Keeps silent. Walks slowly. Surely nothing will happen when there are just a few of them around in class. Ash won't touch anyone if a finger could be pointed at him. Sam wants to ask what happened at the bus, but he licks his lips and finds out that today he needs to concentrate on his fingers and forget about the bus. Forget about idle chatter. It's not going to help.

Sam sits through Math. It's a child's game. He should be in an advanced class, but because he refuses too communicate they won't allow it. His silence is disruptive. There's something scrawled on the whiteboard at the front. There's an error and the error is making Sam's eyes sore. He keeps looking at it and it's becoming worse than an itch.

He gets up.

Walks to the front... carefully avoiding touching anyone and no one seems to want to touch him either. He picks up the marker and corrects the mistake. Goes back to his place. No one says anything except for Tom who hoots and spits on the back of the head of the ginger boy in front. There is a strange silence.

Leanne bursts into tears and runs from the room.

It's going to be one of those days.

Sam can feel it in his brain.

He's standing in that handy alcove between the rows of lockers. Sniffing, tapping... watching.

Word has it that some girl called Lucy, fell dead in the library. She just tipped forward as though falling asleep and when the librarian went to wake her, well she was bleeding out of her ears and eyes and was dead.

That was two. At least. And as of yet, no sign of Ash.

A flurry of movement. And there he is. His noodle hair and red face.

Little bastard.

People are strange today. A lot seem to have been crying. Look as though they're in shock. Pale faces with red eyes. Not a good look. A few slip into the girls restroom across the corridor, but that's not what Sam is concentrating on. It's noodle head he needs to confront and stop. Sam can see the back of his head. Fiddling with things in his locker. There are pictures of some half dressed girl – woman – teenager (?) stuck on the inside of Ash's locker door. Sam can see them from where he's standing watching.

He could move in now, but there are too many people about.

The tapping of his fingers increases. One hand on his thigh the tips of his fingers of his left hand massage his left temple.

There's a headache building.

A white light burning in the middle of his skull. He feels sick. Wants to leave this and go lay down on the floor somewhere cool. Get rid of some of the energy he's been building up. Drain it all out again. But the corridor is emptying. The girls file back out of the restroom and Ash is closing his locker, spinning the little combination lock, turning.

The pair of them stare at each other. Ash with his back to his blue locker, Sam in the alcove which is only big enough for one.

Tap, tap, tap... it's making Sam's eyes water. Making it look as though he's crying. Ash points a finger at him. Sam blinks and moves out of hiding and over towards the red faced, squiggly haired demon.

'It's already started.' Ash's voice sounds excited. Sam glances down and sees Ash has an erection. He's all fired up. Ready...

Sam rocks back on the heels of his boots and springs forward. Graceful, like a cat. Hands out in front of him, fingers splayed. He's making a strange noise which has formed partly in his hot, melting brain and partly in his blood which feels as though it's boiling.

_CLANG_

Ash moves back, but his locker is in the way and now Sam is there. Fingers sliding through Ash's hair and those long fingernails digging into the skin covering Ash's skull. Ash starts his own wailing sounds and Sam feels hot fingers touching his face and fingernails digging into the skin around his eyes.

They stand almost motionless for a while, mouths open, howling into each other's faces. Faces so close that their noses touch, and lips brush against each other. It looks like some crazy sexual act with Ash's hardness pressing against Sam's leg and Sam's pressing right back again.

It's not erotic. Not even slightly. It's just what happens when the energy builds up like it has. They're both shaking, their bodies going into odd spasms, jerking movements in their knees, legs, backs...

Ash has a nosebleed.

Sam can feel something hot bubbling in his ears and now he can taste blood in his mouth, but is it his or does it belong to Ash? He doesn't know. Doesn't want to think about it, but it's too late. He already has and can feel that built up energy being diverted, used by something else.

Someone is shouting words, but they are not listening to them.

Ash shudders against the locker; head flying back with Sam's hands, _crack, clang, boing..._ Sam can feel his fingernails sliding under flesh, he can feel Ash's thumbs sliding closer to his eyes, wanting to gouge, needing this to stop, but Sam's not finished yet, not even as their knees give way and they both, attached to each other, crumple to the floor, still, screaming, spitting, now biting at each other, trying to rip at flesh with teeth.

There's a bell ringing... Sam manages to ignore it this time.

Maybe Ash hears it too. He's squirming, moving a thumb over Sam's eye, pressing, digging...

They wrap legs around each other. Press mouths to necks. Fingers into flesh.

For Sam it feels like they've been caught together like this for hours. He can feel he is being sucked down through the undulating floor. The pain in his head, that liquid, white fire, rages, burns, but he can feel Ash convulsing he can feel the pressure from the hands on his face decreasing. The grip of the legs is lessening.

Sam ejaculates in his skinny jeans. His fingernails slide out of Ash's twitching scalp...

And Sam is sliding, being dragged maybe? He's not sure. He kicks with his legs, lashes out with his hands, spits flesh out of his mouth... and the corridor spins, spins... closes in.

Sam pukes and the world goes black.


	4. CHARNEL

Chapter Four.

Four Months Earlier.

**CHARNEL:** _A repository for dead bodies._

A few days have gone. Spencer isn't sure where the time went. His appetite hasn't improved and nor has his mood. Floyd sits on a grassy knoll looking over the scene. There is a secret smile on his face. There is nothing better than a pissed off Spencer who refuses to say how pissed off he is.

Spencer is standing with his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, looking. Staring. His mouth is slightly open and he's clicking his teeth together as though thinking how to word exactly how much dislike he has for where he is. He slowly turns and looks at Floyd.

'Here.' Spencer says, but it's not a command, Floyd thinks it's a question and he's answered it once. How many times does he have to say the same thing? Maybe wait until Spencer implodes into himself and then he'll explain more. Floyd likes to see Spencer get riled up like this. So angry that the end of his nose goes red and he stands on his toes, as though about to fire himself into space. 'Here?' That was a definite question and Floyd just grins.

Spencer recoils from the expression on Floyd's face, turns his back on him and looks again.

He's looking at a dilapidated double wide trailer. It might have once been white, but it's now a strange yellow colour with blotches of moss growing in shadowy areas. The sun, rain, snow... wind... light and darkness have got to it over the years it must have been standing there on bricks. There's a porch at the front. A small shed like building to the side. The windows look as though they've not been cleaned in decades. There are old bikes in the undergrowth. Kids bikes, pink bikes, blue ones... rusting away. Old car tyres, a broken and rusted out car of some make – Spencer can't tell from where he's standing. There's old fridges, ovens, a bathtub and a pile of bricks with mortar still stuck to them. The ground is dirt, which will quickly turn to mud in the winter. Spencer checks it with the heel of his shoe, digging it a couple of times into the soil.

'Here?' He asks once more.

Floyd wonders if he has lost the ability to say anything else, but at least it's a whole word.

'Yes.' Floyd sighs. 'Thought you'd like it.'

'This?' Spencer waves a hand in the direction of the thing he's expected to start living in. 'Is there running water? Electricity? Any power of any kind?'

Damn, that was a lot of words in a row and all perfectly formed... as perfectly formed as that blond he shagged a few days back... as perfectly formed as Sam when he's being a good little slut. As perfectly formed as Spencer used to be. Floyd raises an eyebrow at the outburst, because that surely was what just happened.

Spencer had an outburst.

'You're never fucking satisfied.' Floyd walks over to Spencer and takes one of his hands, kissing each finger in turn. 'Want me to carry you over the threshold?'

'Will it collapse?'

'Might. It's been here a while. You don't like it?' He takes Spencer's other hand and sucks on his middle finger. _Mmmmm._

'Stop that.' Spencer jerks his hand away, but Floyd isn't going to let go. 'Just... s – s – s...'

'Suck?' Floyd helps him out.

'Stop!' And now Spencer gets his hand back. 'I'm not staying here all winter.'

'It will be snug.'

'It will be freezing. I'll die of the cold.' So many words! Now Floyd is sure that Spencer is enjoying this. Stress fucks with his language skills... and he's talking just beautifully. Does Spencer think he can't tell that? Strange genius.

'I'll wrap myself around you. Keep you close. Keep you warm. Keep you satisfied. You'll want for nothing except maybe lube.'

Spencer's shoulders slump. The idea of being with Floyd, snowed in, somewhere remote... part of that is wonderful – yet a very big chunk of that picture involves a lot of pain. They'll both go stir crazy. Floyd will forget about keeping him warm. He'll wander off, drunk or doped up and find that blond. He'll abandon him to freeze – lose all sense of time, which has never meant all that much to Floyd.

'Who does it belong to?' Spencer has stepped up onto the porch. It creaks and moans and something goes _ping_, but it doesn't break and send him back into the dirt. At least not yet. The place stinks. He can smell it before even opening the door. Rot. Wet wood. Wet paper... damp rotting filth. There's mushrooms growing in the gap between trailer and wooden porch. Wonders if Floyd will eat them. Wonders if he himself will have to eat them.

'Me.' Floyd bounces up the steps behind Spencer. The wood groans. 'I've had it years. All of this is mine.' A faint hand gesture. 'Go on in.'

It's like walking into a charnel. Spencer expects the place to be full of the dead. Full of things Floyd has killed over the years.

He's not all that disappointed.

The door leads into a lounge area. There's rotting carpet on the floor, a couch with mushrooms and moss covering it, a leather chair, rotted beyond help. A kitchen, small dark, dank... can just be seen and off to the side there's a passage with three doors leading off it. The walls are warped. Some pictures hang there but they are covered in some kind of grime. Spencer can't see what they are pictures of, but knowing Floyd as he does, they're probably of a forest; trees. A display cabinet is on the far side of the room with an oddly sloping floor – it is that which catches Spencer's attention. A lovely display of bones... skulls... leg and arm bones, ribs... Twenty... a quick head count. There are twenty skulls sitting there.

Spencer takes a step back, but Floyd is there, placing hands on his back, pushing him forward.

'You might like to make a few changes.' Floyd says. Is that amusement in his voice? Spencer is too distracted by this hole, this coffin... this place of obvious death... much too distracted to note that sound which was almost a laugh.

'Change? A few?' Spencer is welded to the spot, so Floyd sidles around him and walks to the rotting leather armchair and sits. He sinks... sinks and sinks until his backside must have been on the floor and his legs bent so Floyd can only just see over his knees.

'Might need new furniture.' Floyd comments, but doesn't move. Maybe he's stuck.

'There are bones!' Spencer needs to point this out, just in case Floyd has not noticed it. 'On display!'

Floyd frowns over the worn denim of his black jeans... his knees... 'Uh hu.'

'Why!'

'Trophies. I like to keep them sometimes. If the condition is good, you know?'

'No I don't know!' Spencer is again backing out. He's out of the door and on the porch, feeling with his feet for the edge so he doesn't tumble down the steps. It will be dark soon. He's not staying there! Not going back into Floyd's macabre trophy room! Too much of a risk... becoming part of it. Not him. Never. He would run... Spencer wants to run. But he finds he's just standing there. He wants to ask why his life is such a mess. But he doesn't bother. He knows that answer. It's sitting in the remains of a chair in the remains of a double wide trailer in the middle of the woods with skulls on the display cabinet.

He glances around again, notices the kids bikes. They can't have been there long. Surely not. There was still paint to be seen. The ground hadn't covered them over, not completely. Why are there children's bicycles here? What in hell's name has Floyd been doing in his secret hide-away? Killing children? Snatching them away from parents as they rode around on their bikes?

No.

However much Spencer thought... however logical that seemed, considering what Floyd had in the trailer, it didn't sit right. Floyd didn't snatch kids. He didn't kill children. Someone else had done that, if that's what it was.

His eyes flicker over to the bath tub. It's an old thing and from where he's standing he can see that the outside is blackened. Initially he thought it was just dirt, but now he can see, because the angle is different here, he can see that it's burnt. It's been sitting in flames. Maybe a house fire. Probably not. He doesn't go for a closer look. Doesn't want to see if there is anything in the tub.

Slowly he half stumbles, mostly walks on feet which are tingling, warning him to run away – get the hell out of this place before it's too late, but it's to the little shed he seems to be walking to. A loud groan, a ripping moaning sound comes from the trailer. Spencer only just hears it as he concentrates on walking.

One foot

Then another.

Well done. Not on his face in the dirt yet, though he's sure that's coming soon. He won't be shocked. There's a small latch on the shed door. A metal one, rusty, but it still turns. It squeaks but not overly so and Spencer pauses. It's been oiled. He rubs his fingers together, looking at the dark oily muck on his fingers. Someone has oiled the latch. Someone has been here. He turns and looks back at the trailer and Floyd is standing there with a bit of leather stuck to his arm. He's not noticed it, or he doesn't care.

'Might not want to go in there.' He calls over at Spencer. 'I can explain it all.' Floyd walks down the warped steps and into the dirt. He's watching Spencer, but doesn't seem bothered enough to stop him.

The shed door opens without even a whisper. The afternoon light shines in, causing a Spencer shaped shadow to form, but it's enough light for Spencer to make a low whine... a keening whimper. And now he's in the dirt. On his backside, digging his heels in and pushing back from what he's seen. Hands scrabbling and tearing at the ground. He bends a fingernail back and yelps.

'What in the name of...' And Spencer's voice cuts out as Floyd who is now behind him, places a hand over his mouth.

'You react to things in ways I don't expect.' Floyd hissed into Spencer's ear. 'Can't a man have a collection without you shitting yourself?'

Spencer struggles from the hand, but now an arm is around his throat and he's being dragged backwards. He kicks out at the ground, but all that does is cause one of his shoes to fly off and land near the open shed door.

He's screaming... inside he's screaming. Outside all he's doing is making small childish whimpering noises. He feels the sudden difference in height. he opens his eyes... They were closed. He can't remember when he closed them. Floyd is dragging him by his head, by his neck, up the steps and back into the charnel. The rotting wood scrapes over his back, grazes his skin. A slither of wood stabs down behind a fingernail, another into the palm of his hand, splinters in his inner wrists as he tries to hold on and not be dragged back into the trailer...

Over the little step. A ridge of metal. It snags on Spencer's jeans and Floyd tugs harder, the hand still over a quietly screaming mouth. Over the ridge, over the carpet that rucks up and forms a wave like pattern where Spencer is still fighting against being dragged. It's a red carpet. He can see that now. There's a small pattern on it, but the carpet is too dirty to work out what it is. It's sticky. Tacky. Damp.

Floyd drags Spencer down the short passage and into what maybe was once a bedroom. It's empty now except for a rusty metal bar which seems to go through a hole in the floor and up through the ceiling. It's to there that Spencer is taken, released... and then quickly chained. It's a long chain. A very long chain. It rattles and slithers on the floor and then Floyd lights a candle and allows Spencer to see the rest of the room.

It doesn't matter if he screams now.

No one will hear him.

No one ever hears anything out here.

Floyd closes the door. Goes back outside. Walks to the shed and looks in. You can't see the walls. You can hardly see the floor. It's packed, floor to ceiling with bones. Grinning skulls... all sizes... all human, at least all mostly human. There are some sub-species in there. Some hybrids. Some like him. Some like Sam. Mostly they're like Spencer who is in his room screaming like a girl.

The shed door is closed, latched, patted in a gesture of love or maybe it's respect and Floyd walks back to the trailer.

By the morning Spencer would have calmed down. He'll get used to it.

Floyd's reasoning was if he had to get used to Spencer's life, then it was about time Spencer got used to his.

Seemed fair to Floyd.

Spencer didn't sleep. No one could have slept in that room. There are shelves, like book shelves, lining the wall, floor to ceiling, but rather than books there are bones. A few skulls, but mostly limbs. In truth, Spencer doesn't look too closely and the candle guttered and burnt out after a couple of hours. He'd screamed so much that his voice was a low rasp. It wasn't a cold night, but Spencer was still shaking and his teeth chattering, when Floyd opened the door and put an electric flashlight on the floor for Spencer to use.

He doesn't use it yet.

A mug of coffee is placed before Spencer too. That also goes untouched. At least for now. Floyd hunkers down, his back to the shelving making the bones rattle as though they are trying to come back to life.

'Questions?' Floyd says as though he thought all of this was perfectly understandable. It was all so obvious. Why would anyone question anything?

But Spencer nods, looks at his fingers, picks at the splinters and then looks up at Floyd and gives him the full blast of his deadliest glare. It makes Floyd feel all tingly inside.

'Did you kill all of these people?' Spencer asks.

Floyd looks around the room and then back at Spencer. 'Not all of them.' There was a short pause. 'Probably most. But you need to understand this is centuries worth of bodies. I've not collected – I mean killed - all these over the course of last summer. You realise that. I had them stored. A big old house with a huge under-workings. They were stored there for the longest of times. It was originally a cave, you see... then as time moved on I had a small cottage built, then a bigger place. It was secure. It was home, as much as you can have a home when you're what I am.' He slipped down to sit properly, crossing his legs, and putting hands on his knees. 'You've never understood me, have you. Never really known what I'm all about. You think of me as some mad man who kills for fun. Eats for pleasure. It's not like that. Anyway, the house caught fire. Vandals broke in, didn't realise they were walking over the bones of their ancestors and the little bastards burnt the place almost to the ground. Well, actually a lot still stood. I even took you there once, but I'd removed the bones by then. Had them stored somewhere else, but still I kept a few favourites. I needed the skins. I needed the hair. I made Princess. You remember Princess? I'd bring her here.'

'The bikes?' Spencer manages to cough out.

'The bikes? Oh the bikes! Yes they belonged to Princess. She's long dead though. BANG... she exploded. What did you think I should have done with my bones? Given them away? Let someone find them and incinerate them? No... they're treasures beyond that.'

'Why chain me up here?'

'Because you would have run. You would have legged it and made a phone call. That's no good. You're going to have to learn to live with it, Babes. Look, this chain is long enough to reach the porch. You're free to roam. Use the bathroom, cook... all that stuff, but you're not free to run from me. If I've been cursed to have to watch you die, then you're cursed with having to watch death. That seems like a trade. You think?'

Spencer picks up the coffee mug and holds it tightly. 'Let me go.' He demands in a steady voice.

'Not going to happen. Not until you learn to respect me. Not until you learn your damned...'

The coffee was thrown. The mug hits the bridge of Floyd's nose. It was not painful... the drink was only warm and Floyd isn't easily taken down my a coffee mug. He's had enough thrown at him over the years. Spencer though, not so tough when a boot connects with the side of his ungrateful and pig-headed skull. The stupid, selfish and wilful fool.

His head hits the metal bar.

_Donk_

Floyd leaves him laying there, but the door is open. He is free to investigate as long as he doesn't attempt to get the manacle off his ankle. As long as he has started to learn his place.

He has adjusted.

Floyd knew he would.

As a treat, Floyd even got a disposable phone so Spencer could contact someone and let him know he was just fine. Obviously it's Hotchner who gets the call and obviously Floyd makes Spencer put the phone on speaker and it's going to be a very quick call. Very quick.

'Hotch? It's Reid.'

'Reid? Where are you?'

'I'm fine. Everything is good. I'm just taking a break. I needed to get away.'

'Sam was...'

The phone is snatched out of Spencer's hand and flipped shut. It is then dropped on the floor and stamped on. That was it. That was all Spencer got to say, but it will calm Hotch down. Stop him worrying. Surely.

But we're getting ahead...all the phone call comes later. It's winter. There is heating in the lounge and Floyd has moved the skulls out to the storage shed. There is a furnace which is kept going and the place actually warms up a bit. The unfortunate side effect of that is that the mould dries out and the smell if so strong it's hard to breathe. Windows have to be cranked open with a small white handle. The glass, which is really transparent plastic is a strange colour and a bit wavy in places. Windows don't shut again properly. It gets colder and then the heat is cranked up and once again the windows are opened to let out the rich aroma of drying out death, because that's how it smells to Spencer. Like death.

Spencer does spend a lot of the time curled up with Floyd. What else is there to do? He can't get away and really wonders now if he wants to get away. What is there out there for him to run to? The security of the Feds? No... they can't offer it. It's not available. They've tried that before and if Floyd wants him back he'll just wade on in and take him and Spencer knows he'd not resist.

They lay on a floor in one of the other rooms with a sleeping bag wrapped around them.

Floyd kisses the back of Spencer's neck. Lights out. Always from the back... spooning lovingly. Sex is not so loving. It's hard and painful, but unless it's like that, then somehow Spencer isn't happy. It's not making love. Never has been. It's cheap sex. Dirty sex. It's what they both want. It's what they both get.

Floyd disappears for two days. Comes back with a bucket of chicken. It's cold... the chicken is cold, but Floyd says they can warm it. He's been with the blond. Spencer knows. Doesn't ask, just sits in a gloomy corner where the cold gusts which blast under the door can't reach him. He sucks the meat off the bones and watches Floyd who is chewing on the gristle and spitting bits of bone out, but Floyd doesn't look at Spencer's face. He hardly ever does. Not now. That stopped a couple of years ago. At around the same time Floyd told Spencer to shave every day and to moisturise. At around the same time Floyd began muttering about age and...

… and Spencer doesn't want to think about what else, because it makes him think of the kids bikes in the yard and makes him think Floyd is a liar and that he's lured children back here and that makes him feel sick. Makes his bones feel cold and makes his brain catch fire and burn so hard and fast that Spencer cries out and holds a half eaten chicken leg (in crispy bread-crumb) to his head.

'Why did you make a little girl to keep you company?' Spencer is asking as tears run down his face.

Floyd leans inwards slightly and peers at Spencer's tears. 'Migraine?' It's not an answer to the question and Spencer can't nod because his eyeballs will fall out and his brain will pour out of his face, if he does that.

'Why?' There's a bit of chicken stuck between his teeth and he needs to get rid of it, but if he takes his hands from his head, his skull will explode. This he knows. He's sure of it.

'Because that was... because... hey.' Floyd pauses and cocks his head to the side. 'I'll get you some mushrooms. They'll get rid of the head pain.' Avoidance. Simple. Done. Why the hell should he answer such a question?

'Why a girl?' Spencer says between gritted teeth.

'You think I made her to fuck? You think after all these years that I'm some damned child molester? You think I'm that sort of a monster? Really Spence. That's ridiculous. Maybe, just maybe had it been a boy I might have made certain things... well you know... available, but it was a small girl! If you think I'm that sort... oh! You think the bikes... You think... Fuck you!' And Floyd is on his feet and pacing, walking over chicken which neither of them are going to eat. 'All this time! Have you once, even once seen me take interest in a child? What in the name of sweet fuck is wrong with you? What makes you think this shit? All those years... all those damned years I waited for you to grow up... I waited... I fucking well WAITED! If I wanted kids I'd have had you! I would have Jack Hotchner! Believe me, Babes, if I wanted kids to fuck then you'd know first hand. This is bloody un-fucking-believable. This is beyond... fuck!' And Floyd leaves the trailer.

Spencer can hear the sound of the motorbike starting... the grumble of the wheels over the dirt and the sound of it disappearing down the track.

Floyd has left the door open, so Spencer crawls over to close it.

It's snowing. He kneels just inside the trailer. His knees are an inch away from that metal ridge and he watches the flakes whirl down. It's not settling. It turns to a damp splodge on the dirt. The ground is too warm, but it's a sign that it's winter. Really winter. Spencer stands up, the chain clatters behind him. He closes the door on the snow and wonders what month it is now. How long has he been chained up here? Does that blond still work at that motel? Is that where Floyd has gone now? Spencer thinks it is. Spencer thinks that poor blond will get a black eye. He expects Floyd to come home smelling of blood.

Three nights... three damned nights and Floyd hasn't come back. The only food there is is the mashed up chicken stuck to the carpet, and Spencer kneels on the floor, crying like a fool, picking up bits of stinking, gritty chicken and slipping it between his lips. It doesn't keep the hunger away.

The heating has gone off. The furnace is too far away for him to reach with the damned chain.

Is Floyd coming back? Has something happened?

Has he left him here to die? Is that what he did to the others... the ones stored in bits in the shed?

A sudden pain in his stomach. A griping ripping pain. Spencer lumbers to the toilet and gets his grubby cords down just in time.

He's sweating. A fever. Food poisoning. What kind of fool eats old chicken off a filthy floor? The kind of fool who is chained to a pole in a trailer in the middle of nowhere.

His stomach contracts. His bowels open.

It feels like he's shitting lava. It makes his nose run, eyes water...

Then the throwing up starts. On the floor at his feet as he sits on the dirty toilet. It splatters over his feet and onto the iron manacle around his ankle.

He knows he's going to die.

Spencer had imagined all sorts of deaths for himself. Most of them directly at Floyd's hands... ripping him apart. Tearing his heart from his chest... that's what he expected. Not this. Not sitting on a toilet shitting and puking and shaking.

Next time Spencer opens his eyes he's laying on the lounge floor. The sleeping bag wrapped around him. There's a smell of cheroot smoke and whiskey in the air. Floyd has returned. Saved him from shitting his intestines into a chemical toilet.

'Here.' And a bowl of soup is suddenly in front of him.

Does this newly made and even more insane Floyd seriously think he can manage something like soup? He would like to ask Floyd where he went. Why did he leave him to die, but he's not dead, it seems, just limp and sore around the edges. The soup will not be eaten... do you eat soup? Drink it? Spencer's not sure, but either way... he doesn't like the look of it. Is there something floating in it? Something small. Something with wings?

'How long have we been here?' That is what he finally asks as he pushes up onto one shaking elbow.

Floyd gives a shrug. 'Time is a concept which I have difficulty with. You'd be better off asking Sam. He's got that shit tight.' Floyd is still wearing what he had on last time Spencer saw him. He gives Floyd a quick look, checking for blood splatter but sees nothing.

'Is Sam going to be joining us here?' With a sigh Spencer lays back down again. That small movement, resting on his elbow has stripped him of all energy.

'I could pick up a watch for you, if it's bothering you that much. I did say earlier, did I not... that I was having no more to do with Sam... I don't know exactly how long we've been here... eight weeks... at a guess. Not more.'

Two months? Spencer pulled on the sleeping bag, snuggled deeper. It felt like some sort of protection from monsters. A gigantic condom made of quilting and stuffed with Angel feathers. He falls asleep thinking of how Angels lose their feathers. He dreams of Floyd laying down on his front, big dark skinned Angels standing next to him – they both look like Morgan - ripping off his wings. Tearing them from his back. There's a terrible sound of bone snapping and flesh tearing... an even more terrible sound of Floyd screaming... and feathers fly around. Little boys and little girls ride around on blue and pink bikes with tassels on the hand grips... cards on the spokes... _dddrrrrr dddrrrrr. _Childish giggling as they snatch the feathers from the air and when Spencer looks back, Floyd is sinking into the forest floor... slowly at first and he can see he's kicking and pulling at tree roots and howling for another chance... and the wings are tossed into a metal bin and set alight...

But it's just a dream.

It's hot.

Spencer's clothing is stuck to him. The smell – the smell from him, the sleeping bag, the trailer, it's all disgusting, but that doesn't stop his stomach from rumbling. He's not sure when he last ate anything. There's dried vomit on his foot... on his sock. It's stiff with dried on goo and little bits of old chicken. At least it's only puke and not something even worse.

Slowly, with a hand to the side of his head, Spencer pushes the sleeping bag away and sits up.

White tearing pain shoots through his head. Closing his eyes makes no difference. Day or night? He has no idea. It's just _here. _This place. The trailer. He's burning up. Fever? His head feels hot. Hands are shaking. Whole body feels as though it's been drained.

'Hey Babes.' A soft and contented voice. 'How you doing there? Hungry yet?'

No... not hungry. His brain isn't going to allow him to eat. All he really needs right now is to lay down in his own bed, in his own apartment and sleep on bedding that smells of washing powder. His hair is sticking to the side of his face. Is he dying? Spencer thinks he is. This feels like dying.

'A drink. Water.' A cup, plastic... no, not plastic. Spencer opens one eye slightly and peers down. Styrofoam. He can smell sweet coffee has been in there. There's a brown line around it, inside of it, halfway down and strange circular shapes on the bottom. Floyd hasn't washed it out, but Spencer puts the edge of the cup to his mouth and drinks.

'Not too much.' Floyd takes it away from him. 'You've been ill.' In case Spencer hadn't realised that yet. 'You too hot? I'll open a window.'

Spencer wants to tell Floyd not to let the cold in, but he doesn't. He does want the heat out of the place. He picks at his cords... stuck to his skin between his legs... stuck to his arse. Uncomfortable but at least he's dressed.

'I've not left you.' Floyd moves closer and touches Spencer's forehead. 'I've waited. I'm always fucking waiting for you... either to grow up, or die. Nothing in the middle. Most depressing relationship known. I thought it would be fun. Thought I'd get it right.'

Spencer takes the cup from Floyd and sips at the warm water again. He doesn't speak yet.

'Live a dream.' Floyd mutters. 'Live a dream life. Never age. Never die. But it's not that simple.' Floyd is moaning. Complaining about his miserable lot again. Spencer is tired of this. He hears it too often. Poor thing. How dreadful being immortal. 'It's nearly Christmas.'

Spencer blinks at him and sips more water. What does Floyd want him to say? What does he want him to do? He doesn't know, so he keeps quiet. There's a small knife laying on the floor. He glances at it. Wriggles a bit. Covers it with the bottom corner of the sleeping bag. He'll sort this mess himself. Floyd's lost the plot.

Floyd never had a plot.

Poor thing.

'I had a dream about you.' Spencer is sitting on the couch. The mushrooms have been harvested. It's drying out. It smells bad though and the fabric is ripped, showing the stuffing of the cushions. The springs are gone... broken away... it's not very comfortable. Floyd has sunk back into the broken leather chair like some sort of weird sea creature... peering over his knees at Spencer.

'Is that rare?' He seems surprised that Spencer doesn't always dream about him.

'It wasn't erotic.' Spencer says. 'It was strange. A fevered dream.'

'I see... tell me.'

Like all dreams, though, bits go... they fade away and are hard to pull back again. Spencer looks down at his stiff sock and wonders how long it's been on his foot. It's Christmas day. Spencer would love to say it's the worst he's ever had, but oddly, it's not.

'You were in a forest... naked... on your front. Two dark Angels were tearing off your wings... there were feathers... floating in the air and children on bikes.'

'Wow.' Floyd rests his chin on his knees. 'And?'

'And nothing. You were in pain. You fell through the ground.'

Floyd raises an eyebrow. 'Sam must be close.'

Spencer had no idea what that meant or how that had any relevance to his dream. There is a nugget of an idea to ask, but he can't be bothered. He's got a gift wrapped on his lap. Bandages wrapped around his arms. The knife was sharp. He sliced into his flesh, but Floyd found him too soon. Why couldn't he have just left him to die? That surely was what this was all about. He was here to die. He wiggles his toes. There has been no chance to go and get Floyd a gift. He's got nothing to give in return and stupidly he feels guilt. He picks at the tape holding the red and green patterned paper in place. It's squishy. An rotting head? Would that really shock him? Spencer pulls some of the tape back. The pattern from the paper adheres to the tape leaving a white stripe where it had been stuck down. Another bit is pulled away and cautiously Spencer pulls the paper away from whatever it is inside. He just sits staring at it. He can feel a prickle of something behind his eyes. Surely he's not going to cry over this? Two pairs of socks. The label has been cut off, the pairs separated and put back together so they don't match. Spencer picks the balled up socks out of the paper and presses one of them to his nose, breathing in clean... that lovely smell of something new. A quick glance over at Floyd and then Spencer looks back into the package. A sweater. Knitted. Red with snowflakes on it. Little Christmas elves. It's probably the most thoughtful thing Floyd has ever done. Odd socks and an ugly sweater. What more can a man ask for?

'That OK?' Floyd asks over the hands clawing at his knees.

'Wonderful. Truly.' Spencer gets up, placing them to one side and goes to Floyd. He would have sat on his lap had there been a lap to sit on, but Floyd was all bent up in the broken chair. It was a light kiss, on the lips. There was a smell of cloves. 'Thank you.' He can't say more. He's crying. How ridiculous! How insane is that? After all this time kept prisoner in this filthy death hole, he's so happy because Floyd actually _thought_ of him.

'Put it on.' Floyd points at the sweater. 'I need a good laugh.'

Standing outside the trailer, Spencer in his new sweater, socks, and his shoes on his feet. His cords are grimy, disgusting... and he can smell himself, but he feels better now than he has done since the incident in the apartment. Floyd is pouring fuel over the floor of the trailer. Says it's time to get rid of it. He's got a nice Christmas surprise for Spencer.

The bike is not here. Time has drifted in such a peculiar manner that Spencer doesn't know now how long it's been since he last heard the bike revving up and Floyd grinding out of ear-shot on it. The bag Spencer had originally had packed for him, all that time ago, is at his feet. It's been snowing, very lightly, but enough to cover the ground which he thinks is probably hard as concrete now. The shed has a white snowy roof. It looks like something from a child's story, something a normal child would have had read to them. Not him though. Not Spencer. He turns when Floyd comes back out of the trailer, a book of card matches in his hand, which he passes to Spencer, telling him to light it. Put it up in flames. Say goodbye to it. It makes no sense to Spencer. Why get rid of it now? He thinks of asking, but not now. He might not like the answer and today is meant to be a good day. No need to spoil things now. Not now he's finally got the manacle off his ankle. He takes the book of matches and pulls off a yellow tipped match. Walks with it towards the vile trailer he's strangely come to think of as _home_. He strikes a match and tosses it in through the door. It lands just the other side of the metal ridge and goes out. Floyd makes a derisive snorting sound. That sound he makes when Spencer does something wrong, stupid... can't speak properly... that familiar sound. Today, Spencer isn't going to let it bother him. He pulls off another, strikes it, allows it to flame properly and throws it. This one goes further... There's a small blue flame on the carpet and Floyd is pulling him back out of the way, right back – pulling him back by his shoulder.

The trailer makes an odd popping sound and Spencer feels the heat brush over his face, drying any dampness there was there. They walk backwards, holding hands. Spencer is frowning and Floyd is smirking. It's the happiest they've been for a long time. For months.

The fire won't spread. The trees are wet. The ground is wet. Everything is wet. It will burn out and leave nothing. Spencer wonders if it might, just might, spread to the shed... perhaps something will float upwards, in flames, like a fiery bird and land on the shed and burn the whole terrible building to the ground. But they don't wait to see.

'This way.' And Floyd is pulling Spencer out of the clearing and across where he used to keep his bike and there between some trees is a track. Spencer has been in the woods enough times to know it's not an animal track. The smaller trees and undergrowth have been hacked back. There are marks on the snow... footprints – back and forth. Spencer looks at them. Looks at what Floyd's tracks look like. It's him. He's been walking down here.

They walk out of the line of trees and in front of him now is a big white house. The grounds around it are flat... the grass under the small amount of snow is showing through in places. Green. Much too green. There's smoke coming from a chimney. A large garage to park a few cars. The house goes up over three floors... beautiful. A really beautiful house.

'Who lives here?' Spencer is very confused now. How can this place be so close to the trailer and no one complain of the smell... of the screaming? Of the skulls?

'We do.' Floyd waves a hand over the scene. 'It's mine. I said I own the land around here.'

This is Floyd's? This lovely white house with a wrap around porch and Christmas decorations hanging down from a balcony? Why were they living in shit if this place was just around the corner?

Spencer pulls Floyd to stop. 'I – I... Floy... urg... ah.' And he gives up. His hands tingle with a sudden flow of adrenaline. His toes curl in his shoes. His breath puffs out like he's expelling a demon from inside and his hand squeezes Floyd's.

'I needed you to see.' Floyd seems to be explaining. 'I needed you to know what it feels like to be trapped. To have no way out. To see everything rotting around you. I had to show you what it's like for me all the time. Every day. Day in – day out... I see it, Spencer... the ground, the people... my loves and hates, lives... it all falls to rot and I had to have you see how it feels for me all the time. This beautiful house – next year, well I suspect, hope, it will still look much like this, but a decade or two? Then the rot will be there. The wood will be warping. The chimneys will stop drawing. The rooms will fill with smoke. The people I live with will die, be dead... rotting like that trailer. You can see a lovely house. I see despair. I see a drudgery which is my life. You can have it. It's yours. Live in it. Sleep in it. Have parties. Invite Hotchner and Jack... yes... invite them... they'll love it. They'll see you happy. What will I see? I'll see what life could have been if some fucker hadn't ripped off my wings and burnt them.'

'That... that... it... that...'

'Was just a dream... so you said. Sam is close.'

Sam is close? Still that made no sense to Spencer. Spencer also can't remember saying that the dream wings had been burnt. He is sure he didn't say that part. He could stand here now in the snow, slowly getting colder and argue, ask question, at least attempt to ask, or he could carry on walking. Floyd is carrying Spencer's bag. They slowly walk towards the house.

The door is opened for them. A man in a uniform. Very smart. He does a small bow to Floyd and nods to Spencer. There is no surprise on his middle aged face. He's been expecting them. There's also not a lot of pleasure on the man's grey expression.

'Merry Christmas.' The uniform says to them both. Floyd mutters something in return and hands over Spencer's bag. Spencer isn't listening to what is being said, he's looking around him... looking at the sweeping staircase with a gallery looking down at them. He's looking at polished wooden floors, huge oil paintings on the walls, chandeliers, rugs, wall hangings of some ancient design. There are display cabinets again, but Spencer pays them little attention.

Spencer often has trouble finding the right words when he's out of his comfort zone, or if he's not sure of the subject and if stress has built to that intolerable level he often feels... now though, he's lost for words for a whole different reason.

'Like it?' The voice is suddenly loud and breaks through Spencer's thoughts.

What can he say? An honest 'No' would be the way to go, or maybe a small lie, something to make it seem that he'll get used to it? But it's gross. It's so far beyond _like_ that Spencer doesn't know how to proceed even with a few hand gestures. The uniform is going up the stairs with his bag, up the beautiful sweeping staircase, but... but nothing else is beautiful about it. It's like a mad-man's museum. The trailer was bad. The trailer was the worst he could think of, but this? Was that a stuffed person in that glass case? Was that a painted skull glaring down at them from the top of the stairs... Spencer blinked and looked again... yes it was. It was a skull.

'You'll love it. Come on. There's tea waiting.'

Tea? Had Spencer drank tea in how whole life? Had he ever seen Floyd drink it? They were both pure coffee men. That was maybe the only thing they had in common – that and the love of a good blow-job, but tea?

It makes Spencer's head feel dizzy... The hallway they stand in feels oppressive and macabre. He doesn't want tea... he wants to know who that person is in the display case! He wants to know if he's due to join her in some manner, but yet he seems to be following Floyd into a room... A large room with a blazing fire, a couch... more than one couch actually, some arm chairs, more artwork which all seems to follow the same theme... Hell. Torture. Death. Such a calming atmosphere! Floyd rests himself back on a cream coloured chaise. There's gold and red cushions, he tosses them to the side and just lays back, relaxing... he's at home. This is Floyd's home.

The walls are dark orange. The rugs are blue. The paint around the windows is bright green. Nothing matches. The furniture seems to come from different time zones. Some so old Spencer dare not sit or touch, and some looking like it came from a discount sofa store downtown. The light is dim... the room smells of incense and scented candles. There are more display cabinets in here and it's towards those that Spencer gravitates.

'Just sit the fuck down will you?' Floyd snaps as the door opens and a younger man also in uniform walks in with a tray. Teapot... milk, sugar... small delicate china cups with roses painted on the side and little matching saucers.

'Thanks.' Floyd indicates a shiny coffee table.

The servant, for that's what he turns out to be, lays down a heat proof mat, lays out coasters. Oh they know Floyd. They know him well.

'Is there anything else?' Floyd is asked.

'How long until dinner?'

'Half an hour.' The man backs away, bows... leaves.

Spencer turns to look at Floyd and the tray and teapot. He has a million questions to ask and can't force even a babble of nonsense out. His tongue seems to have glued itself to the roof of his mouth. Sit here and drink tea? Live here? In this place that looks like it's the imaginings of insanity? He can't do it. Yet the offer of food. The offer of a clean bed. It's enticing. It's a sweet thought. Maybe the other rooms are not so strange.

'Who is the woman in the glass box.' Spencer rushes the words out as he sits on the couch nearest to the coffee table and Floyd. He speaks quickly... has to before his brain realises he's speaking and shuts him down again. He's not expecting an answer and watches Floyd pour tea. The golden liquid races through the strainer and into the cup. Floyd adds a little milk, just a splash, but oddly no sugar. He places it on a coaster next to Spencer and then pours one the same for himself.

'Constance Valantynes.' Floyd replies and then blows over his tea... Spencer wishes it was him he was blowing and not the tea. He suddenly feels uncomfortable and rests a yellow velvet cushion on his lap.

'Why?' Floyd gives the cushion a look and then smirks at Spencer.

'She was interesting. A murderer. She poisoned her husband and eldest son at a Thanks Giving dinner. They died the following day, though no proof that it was she who did it. I knew. I was there, you see? I was here... And there... Over the course of the next ten years she poisoned all of her sons – there were three others. She had no daughters. She didn't feel that any man should have control over her. She was very much fond of taking affairs into her own hands. She died... fell down the stairs out there.' Floyd jabbed a thumb over towards the door. 'It was just her and me living here at the time and I knew that my name was next on her list. I'd seen it. I'd seen her murderous list and though she had no idea what or who she was dealing with, I disliked the thought that she had it in mind to do away with me, so I... I pushed her down the stairs. Don't look so horrified. She was a bad person, Spencer. Living out here in the middle of nowhere, who was going to report her missing, this was over a hundred years back, you see? No one would miss her. And she was a good subject. I skinned her...'

'No.' Spencer put his cup down. 'I don't need to know details.'

'Oh.' Disappointment was in Floyd's voice. He was on a roll. He was enjoying the expressions on Spencer's face. 'Actually, I bought it. I was telling the truth about it being Constance Valantynes, but the rest is utter bullshit. I've only had her a couple of years. Came from a museum of curiosity that was closing down. She was an hermaphrodite. Something different. Anyway... dinner is ready soon, maybe we should talk about something else. You like this house?'

Spencer's jaw was working. He was grinding his teeth. Why did Floyd never tell the damned truth? Why all this made up rubbish and fabrications. He was an interesting person in himself, why lie about everything? What did he really think he was hiding?

The food was like something Spencer had never seen. Far – far too much for the pair of them to eat. It would have been too much for twenty guests, not just two of them. There was just about every sort of fowl, stuffed with every other sort of bird imaginable. A lot of it, Spencer didn't even want to ask about. Small crunchy things which Floyd relished looked a bit too much like fried cockroaches for Spencer to even look at too closely, but Floyd was enjoying them. There was wine, red, white, things in between, sparkling, and not. There was nothing there which had been forgotten. Vegetables were piled up in steaming heaps, pate, mousse, lemon slices covered in hard sugar, honey combs, chocolate to drink and nibble on. Oranges, and exotic things which Spencer couldn't even put a name to. All of it perfectly ridiculous. Perfectly wonderful – if you discounted cockroaches and the uneasy feeling that the stuffed pork wasn't actually from a pig of any description, though Floyd promised there was nothing there which came from anything even slightly illegal. Floyd's sense of what was legal and what the law actually stated were not necessarily the same thing.

The eating of food in a room with a ceiling painted with golden Angels and silvery Demons... a floor with rushes... for goodness sake! Candles to light, which twinkled off the thousands of bits of silverware. It was a pure monstrosity... and Spencer allowed himself to be dragged straight into it.

In the afternoon, after they'd both napped for an hour or so, or at least Spencer had napped and Floyd had laid back on his damned chaise and watched... they go for a walk in the shallow snow. It is chilly, feet crunch in the frozen white, but Floyd's hands are warm... his mouth hot with excitement and there is actual joy in the way he is walking, showing off this place to Spencer. They walk around the front of the house with holly and other various bits dangling down – Spencer had to sadly admit to himself, silently, that now he was close to it, that it didn't look all that festive. There was something wrong, and out of place about it. But around the corner Floyd stands and points out a small brick built outbuilding. No... come, Spencer... be honest with yourself, that is not just a stone outbuilding. It is a small chapel. A tall dark, slate roof and pillars drilling down into the snow. There was no tower, no bell... no windows now he looked closer, but it is carved on the outside... almost a mirror of what had been on the dining room ceiling... Angelic and Demonic forms.

'It's a crypt.' Floyd announces. 'I moved all the bones here as this place, though pretty, was more or less empty, so I shoved the whole lot in there.' Floyd pauses, turns to Spencer and licks him on the ear. 'You might not want to go in there.' He speaks in a whisper across the side of Spencer's face. His breath still smells of cloves.

'No.' Spencer absolutely agreed with that. It was a place he was never going to go. Though if this was Floyd's why did he have the bones at the trailer in the first place? Nothing made sense. But then where was the shock there? Nothing ever did make much sense with Floyd.

The bedroom.

Spencer stood now at the threshold just staring. It was not like the gaudiness of the rest of the house. There seemed to be no skulls or bones or body parts laying around. There were no rushes on the floor. Yet it was still far from normal. The room was hung with soft fabrics. Layers of it hung from the walls and covered the window. The bed, low to the floor seemed almost to be inside a tent of red, browns, embroidered silks... There was incense burning... no fire, but the room seemed to give off its own warmth. The floor, like downstairs in the hall, was a dark polished wood. It wasn't a fright to see it, it was just very, very peculiar. Once in the room, with the dark door closed behind him, he could see a chest at the bottom of the bed... and over to the side a bathtub full of scented water. What to say about this? How was he meant to react? Was it a joke? It surely was.

'Lovely.' Spencer says as he walks to the bed, running his hands over the fabric.

'Thought you'd like it. Thought it was your sort of thing. There's clean clothes in the chest. Have a bath, get changed and I'll lay here on the bed and watch.'

Floyd thought he'd like it? Really? Spencer isn't looking in Floyd's direction. He doesn't want Floyd to see the confusion on his face. Does the man really know him so little? Had he never been in his apartment and seen what he likes? Fairy land wasn't something Spencer would have said was one of his loves. The thought of a bath, though, that was enticing. The thought of Floyd watching, well he was used to that. It no longer bothered him.

Spencer pulled off the Christmas sweater and placed on top of the wooden chest. He kicked off his shoes, removed the socks pulled down his cords... Standing there looking stupid and skinny with bandages up his arms. He picks at them for a while, wondering if he should remove them. The damage was done a few weeks back now. Floyd had stitched him back together. It will look a mess. A horrible mess, but his arms always did. Covered in scars of futile suicide attempts, cigarette burns, and old track marks. His arms were never on display for anyone but Floyd. It didn't matter. Spencer no longer cared. So off they come, dangling down like party streamers and then tossed on top of the box with his other stuff.

Just stands there. Unmoving. Staring at the self induced mess. His breath hitches. He feels Floyd's breath on his back. Fingers moving slowly down his spine.

'Wash.' It's not a request... and so Spencer steps into the warm water and it's a luxury he'd forgotten about. It had slipped his stupid and battered mind. He'd forgotten how wonderful it is just to sit and soak and feel the warm water engulf him like a lover. A lover who will not try to drown him, choke him or do any other sort of half expected thing as he sat there breathing in rose scented water.

'Lovely.' But the word comes out in a sob. Please don't cry because of having a bath! How pathetic would that look? How grateful would it make you appear? How much would that please Floyd to see how broken he's feeling – not just feeling – Spencer is sure he's broken beyond repair.

His arms sting. His back stings. His hands hurt, but it's such a fantastic feeling. He's alive. Still alive after everything that's happened. His ankle which had been chaffed by the metal manacle almost sighs with its own pleasure... and Spencer looks around, maybe Floyd will wash his back for him. A quick scrub – perhaps get him to get in the water too – it could be fun, but Floyd is sitting on the bed, lounging... watching... those dark eyes, the way he watches – it's almost painful. It hurts Spencer's brain. It shoots white hot fire through him... so he looks away. Doesn't ask. Actually no longer wants Floyd's hands on him whilst he's soaking months of dirt, vomit, shit and other things off his body.

'You've lost weight.' Floyd comments.

It's not a surprise really. He'd been ill. He's been starved. He's been treated like you'd not treat a dog, but Spencer just nods and touches his ribs. 'A bit.' He says.

'A bit.' Floyd repeats. Maybe he's correcting himself. Maybe he's telling Spencer that he knows it's a lie. It's not a bit. It's a lot. But if he gets to eat like he did earlier, he'll soon put it all back on again. His body was used to starving – living on fungus and acorn stew out in the woods, up a mountain, in a dirty backstreet, locked in a cellar... all those miserable and vile places Floyd has put him... and still he doesn't know why.

'Sam is close.' Floyd suddenly says and Spencer turns to look at him.

'How close?'

'A month... six weeks... something like that. I can feel him. I can smell him. I can taste him.'

'He's going to live here?' Spencer has washed his hair, wrapped a towel, a green towel around his head and steps out of the water, grabbing another to wrap around his middle. Why feel coy in front of Floyd? No idea. Probably because Floyd mentioned Sam.

Floyd shrugs. 'If he wants. I can hardly turn him away, not after trying to bash his brains out. Though... I think violence was incited on his part there. He wanted what I did. What I've not worked out yet, is why?'

Spencer raises his eyebrows. 'Will he bring others with him?'

'Unknown. You mean Hotchner, Rossi and that other cunt? Maybe... not sure. Maybe not. Don't have to worry about that now though, huh? Come here... lay with me... let me lick you dry.'

It was the first time in a long while that Spencer and Floyd had done what could be classed as a bit of love making.

They touched with hands and mouths; tongues and teeth, fingernails and feet. Floyd even removed his boots and shirt... though didn't go so far as getting out of his jeans. They did end up around his thighs though, which for Spencer was something of a miracle. Each probed and explored the other as though it was something new and something they'd never had before. It was somewhat gentle. There was no blood. A lot of yelping and squirming and Floyd fairly exploded when Spencer ran his teeth, nibbling along Floyd's collar bone.

It was, maybe restrained. Perhaps Floyd was aware of how fragile Spencer had become, not just physically, but mentally too. No talking was involved which removed that barrier. It was sweet... all legs, arms... slender bodies and sweat.

Spencer fell asleep with Floyd wrapped around him and oddly awoke with Floyd still there. They carried on a silent life. Floyd uttering the occasional word, but not expecting anything but pure love and need and want in return.

There were people to clean the rooms, to run the bath, to change the bedding and cook for them. They had to do nothing but be attentive towards each other and Floyd didn't go racing off for his blond shag in some run down motel.

And the new year came... the old year gone, dusted... no need to think about it or worry about it. A new start. The pair of them.

And Sam.

Well someone had to spoil the grace and peace of what Spencer was experiencing.


	5. CONSCIENCE

Chapter Five.

Now.

**CONSCIENCE:** _The complex of ethical and moral principles that controls or inhibits the actions or thoughts of an individual._

'I'll be a better person. You'll see.' Sam sits up in his hospital bed and gives Hotchner his happiest one eyed smile; the other hidden for now behind an eye patch which Sam happened to think made him look whimsical and a bit of a pirate. 'There will not be a step out of place. No more... no more... no more being a little shit. But you know what? I'll tell you because you're not looking like you believe me all that much, well I've tried and this is the best it gets. It's not my fault Ash attacked me. Those kids dropping dead with blood spurting from their faces had absolutely nothing to do with me. That was Ash and Ash threatened me and what did you want? You wanted me to die too, because if I'd not protected myself and not tuned in like I had then I'd be dead too, but you probably would like that wouldn't you? Get me out of the way for a while and stop you having to keep such a close eye on me and I know that you were in contact with Anne and Vick and probably still are, but I'm telling you that I'm not going back to live with them. It was all a fucking scam of some kind and I don't know what it was but I don't want to go back there and you can't make me and even when it's a full moon and I'm craving anal, even then you can't make me because I am what I am and I don't belong to you. I'm not property and I've done nothing wrong and if you want to place blame somewhere then blame the guys out there in their cars who stop and ask me how much. Blame them for wanting something cute to blow them or to have a nice arse to stick their dicks up. That's not _my_ fault. That's the fault of your lot for not keeping control of the pedo-fags who'd want nothing better than to slip a bit into me... in my mouth or elsewhere and it's me who's being abused and it's me who is unloved and used and it's me who never gets a fucking break because no one trusts me and no one believes that I don't know where Reid is and I don't! I honest to god don't know where he is and apparently that's a fucking crime too! Get beaten half to fucking death in his apartment but yeah! Nothing to do with that shit – it's my fault! Fucking Feds! You've got your heads so far up your stoic arses that you can't see reality. This reality. This one which says, by the laws of this land that I've committed no fucking crime and you can't bloody well keep me locked away.' Sam then takes a breath.

Hotchner was sitting by his bed on one of those green plastic coated hospital chairs, but during Sam's rant, stood. He opened his mouth a couple of times to break into Sam's diatribe but gave up and let him continue. Maybe he'd say something unintentional. Let it slip that he did know where Reid was, though by now at least Hotch knew Reid was alive. At least he was just before Christmas when he got the quick almost breathless call from Reid via a disposable cell.

'Sam,' Aaron sits back down again, sighs... takes a deep breath and prepares for Sam to start talking again, when he doesn't he carries on... 'You are right. You aren't property and no one owns you, but you know that there is information you have which we need.' Hotch watches Sam's face, waits for a sign that this means something to him, but Sam seems to have put on a blank stare. 'You are what is classed as _vulnerable_, your age, your predisposition for drugs and illegal sexual acts. The very fact that you stated that you have had a rough ride, all of that means that you need to be protected.'

Sam now cuts in, but his blankness has remained. '_Protected_ my arse. You just want information out of me. You don't give a flying fuck about me. I'm not a moron, Hotch. I'm not stupid. I know what you're after and I don't have what you want. I'm not vulnerable. Well maybe I am, but no more so than millions of others out there. Go look after some kid who needs and wants it and leave me the fuck alone. I've never wanted your interference and nothing in that way has changed. I hate the fucking lot of you! I just want you to back off and stop putting on the pressure which is the very thing that makes me run to the drugs because a spaced out brain is so much better than the paranoid one you have given me... knowing I'm being monitored and watched and that notes are taken and that every damned word I say is recorded and listened back and your specialists look at me talking and try to see if I'm being honest and what am I hiding. And I'm not hiding any fucking thing! Not a damned thing and you wonder why I go out and sell myself. That bit of darkness... that place that puts me in... that familiar place where I know what I do will be liked... Well yeah... so what you going to do? Lock me up? Let me go and then follow me? Keep me at Anne and Vick's? Yeah... right, can't see that happening so come on Hotch... what now? Now that your wonderful idea has fallen on its face in the dirt. What you gonna do now, because holy fucking cows... you're running out of ideas aren't you? I can see it on your face and I'll tell you now that if I did know where Spencer was I'd tell you just to get you off my back and I'd deal with Floyd's murderous anger later. But then Spencer doesn't belong to you either does he? What if he actually wants to be with Floyd? What will you do then? Stamp your feet and make demands? He's a grown man. Lay off why don't you and maybe he'd feel happier about opening up to you and explaining things to you, but you're so fucking self righteous that you'd not listen... I just say this though, before I leave... keep your eye on Jack.'

And there it was. After all that babbling and moaning and bitching... Sam said the wrong thing.

He didn't leave with Anne and Vick as he thought he would. He was escorted from the hospital by Feds and taken in for further questioning. What was this threat he made about Jack? What was Floyd planning? What was Sam planning? What the hell was going on?

So Sam is stripped of his hospital kit and slipped not so gently into something orange and one piece which Sam protested loudly about. Not that it was orange so much that it was one piece and made him look like a criminal, which it seemed, the Feds thought he was. It wasn't Hotchner who sat the other side of the table Sam now sat at... it was Rossi, with his neatly trimmed _man-beard _and a face that looked like it needed a good slap. A permanent supercilious look on his old face.

There's a coffee on the table, but Sam is refusing all food and liquid. He says that they're trying to drug him to make him talk, he says that if they do that all he'll say is a box full of lies because he's said all the truth and there's really nothing left to say unless of course they want to know exactly what it is he can do with his tongue?

'Just tell me what you meant about Jack.' Rossi has his hands on the table. Palms down. Sam looks at the liver spots and hairs. He looks at the neatly trimmed nails and then looks at his own. They cut his nails, removed his nail polish... but he could still do damage if he needed.

'I meant nothing.' Sam mutters back. He knows he's fucked up. Isn't really sure why he said that to Hotch and doesn't know how to back out of what was said. 'It's just...' And he stops again. Sam is aware that he runs off with his mouth, speaks without thinking. Says all sorts of bullshit... and sometimes that creeping truth slips in there and sometimes that truth, or that threat, or even that sign that he's scared and lonely – poor Sam – that's noted. Kept on file. Never forgotten.

'Just what?' Rossi pulls his hands off the table. Doesn't like the way Sam was staring at them.

'It's that he's a kid and kids get dead sometimes.' Oh fuck... He knows as soon as he's said it that he's said the wrong thing. He didn't mean it like that. 'I'm not threatening him. Kids die. Road accidents. They fall off things... they get hurt. That's all I mean, and really what was Aaron thinking calling him _Jack_ – one of the most famous serial killers there is. Murdered whores and got away with it. And Jack Sparrow... a pirate. Why would someone name their kid after a murderer and a pirate. The poor kid has no chance. But that's not – really not what I meant! It was a general statement of facts. Nearly ten thousand kids die each year because of accidents... That's a lot. At least in 2009 nine thousand plus kids died... and the numbers will go up as population increases and parenting becomes lax and that's not including suicides and murders – diseases and such. That's a lot for a parent to worry about and Jack is still young and so that's all I meant. I'd not want to be a father.' Sam licks his lips and dares a quick look at Rossi to see what he was doing, how he is reacting to what's been said. 'I'd never hurt Jack. Honestly. Never. He's just a little kid and believe it or not, I don't mind Aaron. He's one of the few people who have ever given me a chance and helped me out. I'd not hurt his family. Doesn't mean I'd want him as a parent though. He's fucking strict as hell and... Well that's not under offer anyway is it? Because you lot think that because I like arse and because I look younger than I am that I'm some kind of threat to Jack in that way. I'm not. He's a whiny little brat.'

Sam then picks up the coffee and tosses the contents across the room. Some sort of distraction from the hole he feels he's digging himself.

'You know we can't just release you onto the streets. You have no money. No job... no way to get money unless it's illegal. What is it you want, Sam? What is it that would make you happy? Stop you doing what you're doing?'

Sam is confused. Has anyone ever asked him what he wants before? He doesn't think so. He looks at the brown liquid running down the wall where he threw it. Rossi didn't react. Rossi knows his tricks. Knows his food throwing habits. But as to what he wants?

He drums his fingers on the table for a moment. He needs to think. He has to say this properly or they will lock him away somewhere. He knows. He can feel it. They'll lock him in a cell in some loony bin and forget about him. 'I want to work for NASA.'

One of Rossi's eyebrows raises and then falls into a frown. That wasn't what he expected Sam to say. 'NASA?'

'Research. I want to be able to put what I know into practice. I want to study the stars and planets. I want...'

'You need to get through highschool before you even consider such a thing, but, Sam, I can tell you now that it's not going to happen.'

'Oh.' A disappointed look. 'Because of my association with Floyd? Yeah, you don't have to spell it out for me. I'll never pass their security tests, but I could work for Apple or Microsoft and do stuff, that would work, huh? I could do something like that? You asked what I want... that's what I want. But don't worry. I know it's not going to happen. Can I go now? Can I have my clothes back? Can I leave? I've not done anything wrong! Why do you persecute me like I'm something so damned bad and I really fucking need a fix... fucking hell... I'll yabbering on like this and feel like I'm going to twitch right out of my oranges and I need food and something to drink and I'm not going to touch anything you give me so don't start on that again. Maybe you can give me my shit back and take me out for food? Talk to me somewhere else, because I'm done here. I want to go... I want... I want...' And he actually puts his fingers to his mouth to stop himself from talking. To remind himself to be silent.

What Rossi did, actually surprised Sam. He hadn't thought that they'd let him go. Ash was still on life support and not expected to live, but they couldn't find any way that Sam could have caused the damage. The school had been closed... people were all over it, trying to find out what had made four people die and what had caused Sam's outburst which they thought was connected and obviously Ash's soon to be fatal brain damage... Sam was released. He was given back his skinny jeans and Tshirt, his boots and a leather jacket. However this release was on the condition that Sam went for lunch with Rossi and accepted some aid to get a place to live... a job... something to keep him out of trouble.

So he sits there eating a burger with extra bacon and cheese, a coke fizzing in a tall card cup and two donuts awaiting to be devoured pretty soon.

'Shame you can't smoke in these places.' Sam speaks around a lump of food. 'It was a better atmosphere when you could do that. It added something to it, don't you think?'

Rossi who has a cheese omelet gives a small nod. 'In some cases. Not here.'

'What do you want me to do when I've eaten this?' Sam picks at his teeth and then runs his tongue over them... waiting for Rossi to hand over the plan. If there is a plan.

Rossi places down his fork and gives Sam a good look in the eyes. It's something that some people have a problem with, Sam and Floyd... people have trouble with both of them. There's something nasty about looking them in the eyes for too long. Almost as though they're sucking something out of you, information, your soul... your life...

'There's not much about you that I like.' Rossi says in a friendly way. The way you talk to your friends. 'I'm going to give you some money and with that you'll get on a Greyhound and you'll get the hell out of Dodge. Understand me?'

'No.' Sam says as he wipes his fingers over the grease on the white plate. 'I don't mean I won't go, because I will. I mean I don't understand why. Why you not keeping me locked up somewhere?'

'As you said, you've committed no crime. You're a victim. I would like you to keep in touch. I'll provide you with a cell phone and you'll call me once a week so I know everything is going well. I'll get you a letter or something. Get you a job somewhere. Time to grow up, maybe?'

Sam sucks coke up a blue and white striped bendy straw and keeps his eyes on Rossi. The man was certainly tricking him. The man had a plan. He was up to something, but Sam doesn't know what.

'I'll not lead you to Reid, because I don't know where he is, so if this is a trick to see where I go and who I meet up with and who I contact then you'll see that I really don't know where he is.'

'And Floyd?'

Sam sucks up more coke. Eats more of his burger. Nibbles on a donut.

'I had a dream. It was a pretty clear dream. Like an omen or some kind of portent, you know? It was really damned clear and I saw a trailer... a broken down old thing in the woods, but I swear I don't know where it is and if it even had any meaning, but I've absolutely no intention of looking for Floyd... so whatever it is you have planned...' Sam was now looking out of the window. Two girls, one with pink hair and one with red and black hair are standing there wearing not very much considering the time of the year. They are both holding up cell phones... 'Are those bitches taking photos of me?' Sam stands, Rossi stands with him. 'I'll fucking tear their bitch faces off if they're taking fucking photos of me.'

'You'll sit back down.' Rossi grabs Sam's arm and pulls him back down again. 'They're just girls. Girls like boys. You're going to get used to that. A pretty boy like you is going to attract attention.'

'Oh... well fucking bitches.' Sam moves so his back is to the window. 'I won't have my photo taken by lay-by cunts in no underwear. I've got a bit of class.'

The plan was to take as much money as he could off Rossi and get going. He got a ticket East and stood at the Greyhound station waving a long goodbye with his pockets stuffed with cash he'd wangled off a good meaning Fed and out of the pockets of a couple of drunks in the restroom. It was full steam ahead as he sat down and peered out of the window and raised a final hand at Rossi.

That the Fed was letting him go amazed Sam. That he had so much money in his pockets also amazed him. His plan was to sell the ticket Rossi had bought at the next convenient place and get wasted somewhere quiet. At least that thought was something to put a slight smile on his face. He was free. Nothing to hold him back. No one to tell him what to do. The Feds had officially ticked the box and said he could leave.

Miracle.

Sam would say, looking back at that moment when the Greyhound left and he got a last glimpse of Rossi standing by his car... he should have guessed. He really should have known that it was all a huge trick. But for now that idea hadn't come to him. For now he was content.

He slept a little.

Someone woke him up, shaking his shoulder, saying he was screaming in his sleep. Having a nightmare. Sam told the kindly woman to fuck off and not touch him again or he'd report her for sexual interaction with a minor. She backed off. Sam spent until the following evening staring out of the window... or admiring his own reflection. Rossi was right about one thing. He was good looking and that would draw attention... and really he didn't mind that. It was good that the girls. liked him... good if anyone liked him, come to think about it.

He got annoyed. Actually he wanted to cause a fuss and make the bus stop. Why had Hotchner not been there to say goodbye? He thought the man cared. He thought Aaron liked him. Sam thought he was a father figure. Someone he could go to with problems. He tried the cell phone, but some fucker had done something tricksy to it and he could only call Rossi's number. Fucking hell! Never anything without some kind of damned game plan behind it. EVER!

He departs the Greyhound and stands there looking at the lights on in the ticket office. He doesn't need a ticket. He's got one of those. He wants a job. He wants a hand... a mouth... a needle... something or anything.

So the following morning he's picking himself up off the urine puddled floor of the men's room. His jeans are undone, but they seem in place. That's not necessarily a sign that he got up to nothing. There are new track marks in his arm. His leather jacket has gone. His cell phone has gone. There's a pounding like a jackhammer in his head and there's puke down the front of his Tshirt. Apart from that... and it seems... yes, a pube between his teeth... apart from that he's fine! He still has his bus ticket at least. That's something isn't it?

He sits with his back to the tiled wall and cries for a little while. He has no memory of coming in here. He has no idea who he talked to or what he did or what he injected into his arm. He's got no money left... and as quickly as that his life is once again down the pan. He massages the side of his neck. It hurts. Feels like it's cut or maybe scratched or perhaps an insect bite. There's a small round scab, which he picks and inspects as it sits behind his fingernail.

Getting to his feet is a scrabble. His legs don't seem to be wanting to stand up straight or carry him to where there is a mirror. The right side of his face feels numb... his shoulder doesn't feel right. It doesn't hurt, it doesn't feel much at all, but tingly, but for now he's more concerned about his face and what he might have done to it. He thinks about saying something, trying out a voice and seeing if he can talk, but decides for now that talking isn't what he wants to concentrate on and though his tongue also feels oddly numb, it also feels chewed and swollen. It's at times like this that Sam wants to give up and just fall dead in a ditch. No one would miss him. No one ever would miss him. No one would even know that he was missing until a hundred years had rattled by without him and suddenly someone's dog brings home a leg bone.

This thought has Sam back on the floor again, curled up and crying about his sorry lot. It's just not fair. Nothing ever goes right. He realises that there's piss right next to his nose and this seems to be enough motivation to get him onto his feet. Leaning on the basin in the restroom he can just about see his face in the cloudy, unbreakable, mirror... He gives himself a smile and is very glad to see that it's not lopsided. He can see, however, that the eye which he'd had a patch over for a short while looks bloodshot. He winks at himself. Pulls off his Tshirt and washes it in the basin. Puts it back on wet and it's cold. His nipples rise to attention. At least there's no puke all over him now... just that taint of piss and toilet block... But he has his ticket. He can get back on the Greyhound and carry on and he needs a new jacket and doesn't have his cell phone.

A collect call is made from a phone on the wall outside the Greyhound office.

'I lost the cell.' He tells Rossi the other end of the line. 'Someone accosted me and stole it and took my jacket. I woke up covered in vomit. Not even sure if it's mine, but Dave? Dave I'm really worried because I think whoever did it stuck something in my neck and knocked me out. I don't feel right and I've a fresh track mark and I don't have any memory of taking anything or even going in the restrooms and I'm so hungry and I've no money and I don't know what to do! What do I do, Dave because you see I'm a bit scared. Remember those girls taking photos? You remember? Well what if it was them? What if they followed me here? You think I'd remember their hair huh? But Dave, what if that was a wig? Can you find out? Can you ask? Can you forward me some cash to the bus station somehow? Can you send me another cell phone?'

He stands with the receiver in his hand. Listening to Rossi drone on the other end. Listening to the man moaning at him for being irresponsible and how it's not his job to keep him, feed him and everything else. Sam tells him to go fuck himself if he's not going to help... if all he's going to do is throw him to the dogs and sit back and watch, then fine... fuck it...

'Fuck you and the fat bitch you fuck.' And Sam slammed down the phone and walked to the bus that was waiting. He showed his ticket and found a seat near the back. At the back you could see if someone was watching you. You could check out if...

'Hey!' He jumps to his feet just as the bus starts to move. 'That fuck took my photo!' Sam's howling... 'Stop this shit bucket and let me the hell off, I'm going to tear some eyeballs out...' But the bus doesn't stop and Sam sits back down again. A few people have turned to look at him and then looked away. 'What the hell is wrong with everyone?' He mutters and stares out of the window.

His stomach rumbles.

At the gas station he punched someone on the nose for looking at him.

During a stop off for the night... he slept on a chair outside the diner – he got in a shouting match with someone who was sending text messages. He was sure they were about him.

There was a boy with hair like someone he'd seen before... was sure he was being followed.

Another nightmare on the Greyhound... woke up screaming and kicking and being held down by two guys with muscles and tattoos.

'Calm down little dude.' One of them said. 'You've had a bad trip or a real bad dream.'

Little dude? LITTLE DUDE? No one had ever called him that before. He wriggled out of their comforting embrace and said if they touched his dick or arse again he'd report them. Did they not realise he was under age? What the hell? Can't a boy have a dream now and not be leapt on by some fucking faggot?

Paranoia slipped slowy into Sam's head.

He was very sure that the driver was doing something to the air conditioning. He felt sick and thirsty and his hands were shaking. Decision was made therefore not to carry on with the Greyhounds.

He also woke up at the side of the road once, no idea how he got there and again there was that pain at the side of his neck and he'd thrown up into the frosty grass, because it was fucking cold! And he still only had a Tshirt and he'd not eaten properly in over a week, maybe two weeks, perhaps longer now... and here he is at the roadside, trying to hitch and lift and he knows that he looks like the last person you'd want in your car with you.

And you can't trust them anyway... can't trust them. He considers things and decides that all these helpful people are in fact Feds sent by Hotchner to follow him and find out where Reid is, like it's their fucking business and this whatever in his neck that makes him feel numb... is it something to make him talk? What is he saying when he's like that? Who the FUCK is doing it?

He is walking across old corn fields. The ground is hard and lumpy and there's been snow... Halloween has been and gone again and he missed all the fun... now it was probably coming close to Christmas. Sam had been raiding bins when he could. Eating scraps... begging when it was possible... picking pockets occasionally, but really he wanted to keep away from people and keep away from those who were watching him. If he kept to open fields then he'd see someone coming he'd know who it was. He'd be able to get away, but now the sun left the sky so damned early and he was tripping over, ripping the knees out of his jeans and cutting his legs on the sharp and frozen ground. He needed to find shelter for the night and that meant leaving the exposed fields and going to the line of trees in the distance. Sam walks slowly towards them, his arms wrapped around his chest which he is sure is bubbling and making wheezing noises and he knows that the Tshirt isn't enough to keep him from dying of exposure, though he's not sure that's possible, being who he is. He knows that Floyd could spend his winter naked in the snow and be just fine, but Sam also knew that he wasn't Floyd and that he didn't feel well and that he had no money, hardly any clothes and his neck hurt and he had blisters on his feet, which luckily were going numb.

There's the sound of a train. For a moment Sam stands there with his head cocked and makes out the direction that sound came from. A train ride would be sublime. He'd die of happiness to be sitting on a train with a load of other people to keep him safe. All he needed was the money to get a ticket and after nearly getting caught with his hands in someone's pocket not so long ago, he's a bit nervous about doing it again. At least for now. The sound of the train has gone, but there's a bit of a breeze now and with that comes the continual hum of traffic... so there was a chance of hitching, though Sam doesn't want to do that now. He's hungry, cold and tired and wants to just sit somewhere and huddle up, close his eyes... sleep.

There's a fallen tree. Probably went down in the storms last winter. It's now covered in some kind of climbing plant that Sam can't name, but he knows it's not going to make him itch or come out in hives so that is where he settles. Pulling some of the creeper stuff around himself, ducking down his head and with his eyes closed he tries to sleep, even though it's likely to be only three in the afternoon. He just wants to sit and dream of something nice for a change. Maybe a cheese sandwich... a dream about a cheese sandwich would be wondrous...

He doesn't dream of a cheese sandwich... not any kind of sandwich... he dreams of walking through long grass. It's taller than he is and he can't see where he's going. There are noises... squeaks and yaps... and they're getting closer and in Sam's dream he knows that he has to run, run fast, run faster than he's ever run before, because they're after him. The dream doesn't let Sam know what it is they're after, but he is very sure that a bit of light-hearted torture followed by something a bit heavier and then a skinning or something just as nasty – that is what will happen if he doesn't keep running, because once he's out of the grass he'll be safe... but he seems to be running in circles. There doesn't appear to be a way out and a stinging on his neck... it feels like a big insect sting and he puts his hands there to see what it is and a hand slaps it out of the way... his knees begin to give way and there are hands all over him, pulling him by his hair over the ground, tearing at his clothing and hissing and shouting words he doesn't understand...

He wakes up naked, laying on his back with early morning frost prickling at his skin. For a moment he doesn't move, he's not sure if he _can_ move, but he is staring up at the empty tree branches and wondering what the hell happened. He's not in the little shelter of the fallen tree and the creeper and with his hands doing a quick check, yes, he's definitely without his clothing. Slowly he sits and looks around. He can see the tree he'd sat under the night before, before the birds were singing a wintery 'good morning' to him. His clothes were off to the side. His jeans, Tshirt, boots, jacket... his jacket... Sam gets to his hands and knees and shivering like a very cold thing – which he happens to be – makes his way to his jacket which had been stolen weeks back... it must be weeks back by now, but damn if that's not his! However there seems to be a distinct lack of underwear or socks... and after he's pulled on jeans which feel stiff with the cold and his Tshirt is back on covering odd scratch marks on his arms... and he has his jacket on his lap he discovers the pockets are full of money and yes (!) the missing cell phone, which after checking, Sam finds it not only has full battery but a signal too!

'This is bonkers.' Sam says to himself as he slips the jacket back on. 'Why scare the fuck out of me and then give me my jacket and phone back?'

So he sits down and dials out the only number it will allow him to and waits for someone to answer.

_Yes?_

'Dave? Dave! Dave! It's me... This is going to sound crazy, but...'

_Crazier than what you've been doing since you said the phone went missing?_

For a moment Sam is silenced... Then after looking at a scratch on his inner arm he speaks again. 'Whatever you game is, I give up. OK? That's what you want isn't it? You want me to cave in and give up. Well you've won. I think it terribly pathetic and childish to strip me off naked in the woods and then leave me there. I could have been eaten by a crocodile or a bear or a wolf or a horse. You never know what's out here in the woods and as for hypothermia... well let's just agree that it was a stupid move, but you win. I'll be waiting somewhere where I can give you a land mark. Pick me up. Lock me up... I really don't give a shit any more. Just stop these stupid games because I can't sleep and I can't eat and I can't even take a piss without something happening to me... and I can hear them. I can hear them following me. I can sense they're there in the woods, hiding behind trees and watching, well TAKE ME! I'm here! Take me and do what you want because I give up completely. I just want a warm fucking bed and maybe... no... wait...'

_Sam? What are you talking about? Where are you? What's happening?_

'You know something Dave? I kind of liked you in a grandson, grandfatherly sort of way, but you've gone and broken all the rules.'

_Tell me where you are. No one has been following you. No one has been messing with you, Sam. At least not anyone from here._

'Yeah... as I said... when I have a location I'll let you know where I am.' And Sam snaps the phone shut and sits for a while wondering why someone took his socks and not very clean cotton/lycra Hello Kitty boxers. Now his boots were really going to rub something vicious.

Walking towards the sound of traffic, limping a bit where he is sure his toes have been ripped off by the rough leather of his _ punk industrial reactor boots_... with their just over an inch of platform and a bit of a heel... really not the what he should have put on for this trip... though he is telling himself that they're wonderful and he might have ripped jeans, but he looks fucking hot! There's no denying that. He's the real deal... he's the man!

It's a village or sorts. Maybe just a row of shops on each side of the road, but there's a diner and there's a place he could go and replace what he thinks Rossi took from him. Only an old perv would want a lads undies... so with that in mind, Sam decides that calling Rossi is not on the agenda. He has a total of thirty two bucks and some change. With that he firstly gets something to eat. A cheese sandwich which he then sits and pulls apart because really can you trust anyone not to be drugging you these days? No you can't. And he's sure people are watching him. Maybe taking damned photos or little video clips and sending them back to Rossi and the boys who are probably by now sitting in a circle handing around his skanties and giving them a long sniffing... good luck. They must stink.

He stands from the table so fast that he knocks over the coke and then nearly falls as the rooms spins around him... he stood too fast; not drugged coke this time, but that is why they took his things... it's to track him with. Why give back the jacket? Maybe they thought he was going to die of the cold, but then why strip him off? To spook him.

'Stop fucking staring at me you fucking cunt faced arse!' Sam yells at the girl who had been serving him. 'I know what your game is! I'm in on it now. You're not going to fucking win! Get it?'

The waitress backs away, then turns and runs to a back storage room... the door is slammed and locked. Sam punches the table and leaves... not forgetting to stop off at the small clothing store to replace what he'd lost.

Shame was – no Hello Kitty – but they did have something which would at least not look stupid on him... and just some black socks... nothing fancy... and he was off again. Walking to the main road, hoping to get a lift. He was close! So close now! He could smell Flanders. He could almost taste him if he left his tongue out for long enough and put his head out of the car window. Discovery... if you put your head out of a car window... stick out your tongue and howl... likelihood is that the car will pull over and you'll lose your lift.


	6. PETRIFY

Chapter six

**PETRIFY:** _To make rigid or inert; harden; deaden:_

He knew it had moved.

Spencer stood in the hallway of the ridiculous house. Snow was falling steadily outside and it was not something which gave Spencer too much joy. He was not in the mood for snowballs that might have razor blades in them (Fuck Spence! Where's your sense of humour?) or to see if the lake was frozen, (Just step on the ice. Don't worry about the cracking sound.) He didn't want to see mysterious little animal prints in the snow and he certainly had no desire to go and have a bit of fun in the crypt. Thus, Floyd was sitting in the library, which was quite a damned show... and Spencer was standing in the hallway looking at Constance.

He _knew_ she had moved. He had been sure of it the day before. She was standing slightly differently. Just slightly, but Spencer knew she'd moved.

And now the glass of the case which held the monstrous thing in place was cracked.

Had this been the only oddness, Spencer would have ignored it. Things get broken. Imagination runs away and sometimes memory can be wrong, or off kilter slightly, though that was rare... it did happen especially when you had been locked away and had allowed imagination to go skidding off in all sorts of fanciful directions.

But he also knew that someone put a hand on his back when he was at the top of the stairs. It didn't push – Spencer thought he'd not be here to muse on the cracked glass on Constance's case if he had been. He'd have surely broken his back or neck, yet a hand had touched him. It had felt warm through the blue cotton shirt he had on.

He was also sure that something had blown on the back of his neck, just two nights ago – or early morning – he'd assumed it had been Floyd, yet when he turned over to maybe carry on with something they'd been doing earlier, Floyd wasn't there.

There was a telephone. Of course it wasn't connected. Why would it be? If you wanted a phone these days you got yourself a cell. It was easier. So when the big green dial phone in the hallway suddenly rang, Spencer slopped whiskey (oh sometimes he drank and maybe too much too often recently... but who the hell gives a damn?) over his dark red jeans (a gift from Floyd). He answered it, but all there was the other end was a hissing and crackling sound... almost like a television with no signal.

This, though – this business with Constance was something which made Spencer's skin crawl more than just a little. She was dressed in a white frilly thing which came to shin level. There were tiny pearl buttons in a double row up the front of the bodice. The sleeves were short with a pretty scalloped edge and she wore a bonnet also in white with ribbons and lace. There any sort of beauty disappeared. The exposed skin looked as hard as leather and Spencer guessed that was because it _was_ leather. Looking now, taking a step closer he could see the tiny, tiny stitches holding the bits of skin together. Not quite a patchwork... she was joined at the elbows and at the neck.

'Did they behead you?' Spencer breathed hot breath onto the glass making a misty patch.

She didn't answer. Which was a mercy for Spencer who might well have died if a gravelly and long dead voice had replied with the word 'BRAINS'... But though she didn't answer his question he saw, sure, very sure that she had blinked. Glass eyes. They were not real. She couldn't see. She was just skin... there were not even any of her bones inside... surely not... taxidermists just used the skin...

Still now he takes a couple of steps back. He walks backwards down the hallway to the door into the room of many couches and not until he's in there does he turn and lumber – can't possibly run in this room... he'd tried that before and nearly killed himself falling over couches, chairs, little tables... and almost fell into the roaring fire.. so he didn't run... he lumbered, easing himself quickly between what looked like furniture in a junk shop, and heads now for the library door.

'Floyd.' He gasps as he barges inwards... doesn't bother to knock which he _knows_ is a cardinal sin with Floyd... he doesn't even do that odd scratching with his index finger which Floyd told Spencer would also get his attention, no he just wades in and there is Floyd sitting at the desk with a pile of books around him and a pair of glasses on the end of his nose.

'Spence?' There is no anger or annoyance in that one word. It is more a worried tone if anything. 'What's wrong?' To Floyd, his babe looked horribly pale standing there... was he shaking? Floyd thought so... Spencer's eyes where huge.

And So Spencer finds words have evaporated and he's unable to say about Constance or the hand on his back or the way the furniture has it in for him. He just stands there, leans slightly on the door frame and looks at Floyd who suddenly looks so damned delicious he wouldn't mind if he died right here and right now. Having that vision as the last thing he saw would be enough.

'Spencer?' Floyd walks towards him, glasses off and left on the table. The air smells of incense and cloves. As Floyd takes Spencer's elbow in his hand and leads him out of the library and back to the couches, where he lowers his love to something lumpy and green... Spencer can smell that rich musky smell which is unmistakably Floyd.

'She moved.' Spencer whispers.

'She? Who?'

'Constance.'

For a moment nothing more is said. Floyd sits down next to Spencer and puts a hand on Spencer's thigh. The fingers dig in slightly... the hand moves high... higher... searching out somewhere warm to rest.

'Constance moved? In what way did she move?' There seems to be no shock or disbelief in Floyd's voice. He's listening. Maybe that touching he's doing is a nervous thing? No... Spencer thinks Floyd just wants a quick grope.

'I noted that she was standing differently. I went for a closer look. The glass in the... cabinet – is cracked and she blinked at me.'

'Ah...' And Floyd is on his feet again. 'Go to the library. I want, no I_ need_ you to go there and close the door.'

'I also felt a hand on my back, top of the stairs and someone blew on my neck... someone other than you, in the bedroom... in the bed.'

Floyd drags on Spencer, maybe a slight panic at the way he pulls before he had a proper grip on the dark grey shirt. 'Library. Now... no arguments. And when did you feel things? Have you heard anything odd?'

'The telephone.'

'Fuck.'

Spencer finds that he's standing just inside the library door. 'What's going on?'

'Sam is close.' Floyd answers. The door is slammed... and a key turns in the giant brass coloured lock. Spencer stands in a room with no windows, books lining the walls... a small table lamp... nothing else.

'Great.' He sighs and walks slowly to where Floyd had been sitting... wondering what his man had been reading. He sits himself down and picks up the strange wire rimmed glasses Floyd had been wearing. The lenses tinted with a dirty yellow. Spencer puts them back down again and inspects the book Floyd had been reading. Like all the books in this room – at least by what he's been able to ascertain – it's a hard bound book... embossed leather with a dusting of gold along the edges of the pages. As for what the book is about, Spencer isn't sure. The language isn't English... it's not anything he's seen before, but maybe it's some Eastern European language. Floyd hung around that part of the world, so it was possible. The page Floyd had been looking at was covered in illustrations, patterns of some sort, but without being able to read the annotations it was not possible to work out what it was talking about.

The door rattles and Spencer looks up expecting the door to open and Floyd to come back and explain what's going on with Constance. Perhaps she's drying out in the heat... it's a very hot house. Fires rage all the time, except it seems in the bedroom and library. Yet the door doesn't open. He can hear scratching the other side... maybe it's a servant. Perhaps it's his afternoon cup of tea or coffee or whatever they decide to deliver, but the scratching stops. The door stops rattling and the room becomes silent again.

Too silent.

And suddenly very cold. The sort of cold where you can see your breath. Spencer leaves the table where the open books sit and checks on the door. He twists the door handle... huge... almost the size of his fist and he sees now for the first time that it's engraved with patterns which remind him of the ones in the open book. But that is almost forgotten because the door does not open and standing close as he is, he's sure that he can hear whispering the other side of it.

Should he call for Floyd?

Have him hurtling back to save his petrified life? No. He will stand his ground. Events have broken him. Made him much a different person, but he's not yet completely shattered. Not yet. That doesn't stop him from wondering if that is Constance the other side of the door...

and what is that noise? A slithering sound? A scraping... it's coming from inside the room.

Spencer spins... wipes his sweating hands on the side of his jeans and looks around. The room which is about fifty foot long and half as wide is not huge, and there is nowhere for anyone to hide. The bookshelves reach to the ceiling. There are two of those ladders with wheels on the bottom so you can climb and drag yourself along as you search for the right book. There is one on the left and one on the right and the one to his left is moving... very slowly moving along the floor away from him, but it's not that which is making the noise, it's the books which are slowly pushing their way off the shelves. Half a dozen of them, creeping out of place.

Someone must be the other side. It's a game. Floyd's game. It's unsettling, but only because once again Floyd has decided to see how much he can make Spencer scream and he's not going to. He walks to the books which are are just about eye level and pushes them back in. He steps away with his own satisfied smirk, then leaps back with a yelp as the books shoot off and fly across the room. He ducks, but one of them... a black bound book, scraps him across the side of the head, catching an ear. No real damage, but not amusing. Not even slightly. He ignores the fallen books; fallen... they just fell... they didn't fly... he was being clumsy. That's the end of it. He inspects the bookshelf, looking for where they'd been pushed out from the other side and finds nothing but solid oak... solid oak with weird burnt on marks... again they remind him of the marks in the book on the table.

'Get back here Floyd.' Spencer hisses between his teeth as he watches the wheeled ladder slowly making its way back down the shelving towards where the books had been. That was not what made Spencer dive for cover under the table... it was that as the ladder moved, so did the books. Leaping and flying like winged creatures and this time they were definitely trying to hit him. They clattered and banged against the table top, Floyd's glasses dropped and the temptation to reach out and take them was there for maybe a second only. Books skidded across the floor towards him snatching the glasses with the yellow tint out of his grasp... Shsshhshs... the sound of the ladders running back and forth, themselves knocking books out of the way... and a constant – BANG – at the door... things being thrown against it, the splintering of wood, smashing of china and the padded thump of a couch, chaise or chair...

Hanging on a hook under the table, three twists of something. It looked like twigs woven and bent together into a loop and they swung back and forth, back and forth, faster and faster, but under here, under the table, Spencer was safe. The books stopped at some kind of barrier and just became inanimate objects again. That no ways meant that Spencer was going to climb out from under the table. Not yet... Oh not until he could see the white of Floyd's eyes... only then would he come out. The twisted circles of twigs stopped their dancing. A clatter and a screeching of something being dragged or if you want – dragging itself, over the floor the other side of the door.

Not the biggest table in the world. But big enough to be crouched there with his arms wrapped around his head and his heart to pound in his chest... it was shelter for now. Until rescue. If this was a game Floyd had set up, then it was very elaborate and as he sat there considering if it was safe to have a look at one of the books which had piled up like the wind would pile up sand on a windy day...

Something screamed...

Spencer could crouch there with his nose going red and a fingernail broken and he could safely say that the noise he heard was not a human scream. That terrible noise couldn't have come from a person... not one who was still alive, at least...

And his mind drifted to Constance. Was that her out there with her glass eyes and stitched up skin? Was she just stuffed with sawdust of straw or were there bones under that skin? Was she fully preserved...

It didn't matter either way. She was long dead. She couldn't come back to life. It was impossible.

Then his mind drifted to Sam who had that caved in bloody and bruised look when he last saw him... he thinks of the bubbles of blood on his lips and they way they popped... and the blue around his mouth.

You cannot be both dead and alive at the same time.

Unless it seems, you are Sam.

Or Floyd.

Or maybe Constance.

Spencer doesn't know how long he waits (cowers) under the table. It is proof to him that there are cracks beginning to show – the glue holding him together is coming undone, or was never strong enough to hold him together in the first place. He was beginning the slow and mind destroying process of the final shattering.

Truth was, that if Floyd never returned, he would never leave where he was now seated, rocking back and forth like a child... he knows he'll never leave because that would mean having something other than the fear he was feeling. He'd need to feel more like the old Spencer... the gun toting, joking, laughing, Spencer who had a peculiar mind which others laughed at and secretly admired. He used to spout statistics and information he'd read in various weird and wonderful places when he was nervous... now he could hardly spit out one word. There was very little of what he used to be left. Though – thinking as he was, about his previous life, he'd be happier if he had a gun... he'd be happier if he could see an UnSub and have a heart of head to aim at. That gives control, but as he knows now, not all UnSubs are physical. Sometimes they live in dreams and nightmares and sometimes they are Floyd.

Sometimes they're in the closet or under the bed... Occasionally it seems they are in libraries on the east coast of North America... somewhere – he's absolutely no idea of the precise location of this place...

Anyway, one day, if Floyd never returns, his dried up corpse will be found hiding under a table. Brave to the very end!

There is a stillness.

He feels like a child hiding under the nursery table, hiding from the nanny... in some long ago time when this house might have been new.

'Spencer!' His name is being called. It's Floyd. He goes to stand up... smacks his head on the underneath of the table and promptly sits back down again. He'll have a lump there later.

'Floyd!' He calls back. Tries to keep his voice level. Tries not to let the panic show.

'What the fuck?' That's Floyd again. 'Who the hell's been here doing this?' There's the sound of furniture being moved... a whisper of another voice. A small whining voice. Sam? Could Floyd have left him here to be battered to death by old books whilst he went and got Sam?

Probably. Even though he said he'd had enough of Sam and didn't want him around.

Spencer can't see why Floyd would not do that.

Yet he's still under the table and that's exactly where he's going to stay until he knows for sure that it's Floyd out there and not some spook using his voice. Not a dead Floyd. An alive one... one with breath that smells of cloves and a body that smells of musk and man-sweat. Only then will he move from his safe haven and whilst he thinks this he listens to the scraping of wood and the flump of soft cushions being thrown and the crash of another thing smashing... and finally the door opens and Floyd is standing there with a nasty little shadow behind him... Though for some reason Sam looks taller than usual. Has he grown? Spencer soon realises that it is actually the ridiculous boots Sam is wearing that gives this illusion.

'What the fuck happened?' Floyd is marching across the floor, kicking things – books – out of the way and then bending down and looking under the table. 'You hurt? You're bleeding.' A hand touches the side of Spencer's head... his ear. Floyd shows the blood on his fingers. 'Come.' He pulls on Spencer's arm. I found Sam. He's brought trouble with him.'

If the trouble arrived with Sam, then only the gods know what the trouble with this beautiful Cape Cod house was before Sam's arrival. Surely things can't be worse? Creepier? Yet Spencer sits rubbing the lump on the top of his head and gives Sam sideways glances. In a way Spencer is happy to see him... that though, is balanced by the fact that Spencer is also glad to see Sam looking not to good. His clothing is ripped and dirty, his hair is a tangled mess and there are dark bruises under his eyes. Spencer thinks that Sam actually looked healthier when he was laying over the coffee table in his apartment with those dreadful bubbles of blood popping. He wants an explanation. He – Spencer wants to know what the hell is going on! Where are the staff, for example? Couldn't they hear something was going on in here?

Floyd answers that question. 'Well that's something I've not discussed with you yet. Unfortunately Greta did something stupid and... well one thing leads to another and I had to dismiss the staff.' As Floyd talks he picks up some cushions and plumps them up and places them neatly on the couch. The rest of the room is shattered cabinets, tipped over tables and couches laying on their sides. Strangely, though it looks like a tornado ripped through the lounge, the windows, huge things, are unbroken. 'I should also point out that Constance is missing and before you blame me for playing games with you and crapping in your brain, this is not me. This, I think at least, is Sam.'

Spencer gave Sam another look – taking more interest in the mess he was in. Sam was standing in front of the fire in great risk of melting his silly boots, but Sam's shoulders were slumped his whole posture seemed saggy and tired. What exactly had Sam brought with him?

Floyd seemed to be able to read Spencer's mind. Again that hand was on his thigh – and no, that's not what Spencer was thinking of, it was the words which made him shudder. 'Sam made a deal. He thinks he's able to do such and not end up being ripped apart by the creatures who you're messing with. It's far from that simple. He's... how can I put this... stupid... I think that's the best way to describe it. He's greedy and... yes... more greedy... ravenous. He wants something he can never have. Something the gods will never give him and he can think otherwise all he wants but the gods are not in the business of handing out godly souls to little rat demons, which is all Sam is.'

At this Sam turns from the heat of the fire and looks at Floyd through narrowed eyes. Spencer thinks maybe they're narrowed through lack of sleep rather than annoyance.

'You can deny all you want, Floyd. It worked. I was given a mission and I did it and now I full. My spirit running through my body has company at last. I'm not the creature you created. I'm one with the Angels and gods. I can feel – I mean really feel – emotionally feel love and stuff and...'

'Bullshit.' Floyd takes his hand off Spencer and stands. 'How long have I been running favours for the gods? How long? Shall I tell you... an eternity, Sam. If forgiveness and love were that easy to get from the fucking gods I'd have been back home before man learnt how to make fire. But I'm not am I? I'm still here. Still sodding well trying to please the cunts and I can dream all I want, but I know it's not going to happen. When I'm finally drawn back and this body is permitted to die, it's not to The Great Forest I'll be going, but to some chamber of horror and pain to amuse the dark ones.'

Sam scratches at his neck as he listens. He nods his head a couple of times. Actually seems to be taking in what Floyd is saying. 'But you're not me. They don't like you. They like me. They said. They told me... "One job Samsuail and you will be complete." They said that. They called me by my real name. No one calls me that. No one ever. You who gave me that fucking name never calls me that. So why would I not believe them? Why would they say that to me if it wasn't true?'

The slap across Sam's face is so fast that Spencer didn't see Floyd move. But there he is standing there by the fire and Sam's on his backside at his feet. Maybe it hadn't been a slap. Perhaps that had been a full fisted punch, because Floyd's hands are in tight fists now at his side. He's standing oddly, leaning back. Spencer knows that posture very well. He's seen it enough. It's Floyd's attack mode and Sam has seen it too, because he's scuttling back on his bum, digging his chunky heels into the floor and pushing back away from Floyd. And now his eyes are wide. Now there is fear on that face.

And somewhere inside of his cracked and broken self, Spencer is glad to see it.

'You arse! You stupid fucking shag-haired worms offal! I knew all along that you didn't always engage you brain before you spoke but I never knew you were quite that moronic. What else have you told them? What other names have you handed out like they mean nothing? Do you have any conception of what they can do if they know your given name? Do you understand even slightly why I never call you anything but Sam...'

'Sammy.' Sam muttered from the floor. 'You call me Sammy – and Arse Cunt.'

'For the sake of...'

Spencer watches with horror... thinking for a moment that Sam was going to be tossed into the fire like a bag of rubbish, but Floyd raises his hands and covers his own face with his arms. He steps away from Sam and bumps against a small fallen table. Sam is making snuffling sounds. Floyd is taking long deep breaths and Spencer sits there wondering where in all this... where does Constance fit in?

'I... need... I think I want... I...' Spencer tries out a few words and gives up. He watches Sam clamber back to his feet, looks at Floyd standing there with his face covered and wonders what the hell to do next. 'Bed?' He suggests. It seems to be the place Floyd likes to go to relax... well no, it's not, actually, Spencer corrects himself. It's the place where Spencer can relax and that's where he wants to be, surrounded by wispy curtains, with strong arms around him.

Floyd looks out from between his elbow. Stares with one eye at Spencer as though what he's just said is the most ridiculous thing ever and then that eye looks at Sam.

'I hope – I really hope that you didn't give them my name too.' His voice sounds muffled. Very pissed off... almost as though it is as struggle to speak and not scream abuse.

'They already know your true name. I didn't tell them anything they didn't know.'

Floyd takes a step forwards. 'Did you confirm their guess? Because it would have been a guess, Sam. They wouldn't have known. They can't have known. The last thing I need right now is to be possessed by some demonic fuck or called by some fucking armature spiritualist... understand me? Did you confirm their belief? Yes or No. Even Spencer could manage to spit that out. Did you or did you not?'

Sam shakes his head. His hair is greasy and stringy. He is drumming his fingers on the side of his leg. His eyes are wide again, too wide. Spencer can see the horror in them. He can see all the way down to Sam's filthy soul... if that's what he has... a roiling, spew of something so diabolical that Spencer has to look away.

'Of course I didn't.' Sam whispers. It's a lie. Even Spencer can tell it's a lie.

Have they waited here all this time just so Sam can arrive and Floyd can spit roast him? Spencer thinks that might be so. Did he live in that trailer with bits of dead things surrounding him for this? Did he shit his intestines down that filthy toilet just so Sam could arrive in a flurry of dirt and stink for Floyd to remove his head?

'I need...' Spencer gets to his feet, points out of the door in the direction of the hallway. 'A pee.' He manages to heave out.

'I am surrounded by idiots. And now a traitor too. You'd give me up for your own selfish needs? You wouldn't even _exist _if I'd not created you. And now this? I can smell the abomination you now are. You filthy hybrid scum. Sam, you need to get the hell out of my sight. Quickly because my need to kill is becoming overwhelming.'

Sam leaves quickly. His boots crackling over broken glass and ceramics, he leaves through the door into the hallway, and Spencer expects to hear the front door open and slam shut, but now it's the sound of Sam's boots stomping up the stairs, across the upper landing and finally a door is slammed.

Spencer looks at Floyd who has now lowered his arms and has them wrapped around his chest. He stares at Spencer. Gives him a long hard look.

Spencer takes a step towards Floyd. There is a look of utter loss on Floyd's face. 'What now?' Spencer asks... reaching out, trying to give comfort to Floyd who does look upset about something.

'Now?' Floyd takes Spencer's hand. 'Now nothing. Nothing at all. It's over. Maybe not tonight, or tomorrow, but soon.'

'What is over? This Sam business?'

'Life!' Floyd shouts at him. 'My life! Everything... and don't think that when I'm dragged into hell I'm not taking you with me.' He drops Spencer's hand and also leaves the room, though Floyd walks towards the back of the house, down the back stairs to the staff quarters and kitchens. Maybe he's going to make dinner?


	7. HIDE

Chapter Seven.

**HIDE:** _The Skin of a Human Being._

Spencer sits on the edge of his bed, tented in by swaths of fabric coloured in oranges and reds. His throat feels dry. He licks his lips but needs a drink to rehydrate himself.

'Did you know that the human body can only live for five to seven days without water?' Spencer lets Sam know. 'Dehydration is serious. You need to be hydrated to operate efficiently – to be able to think properly, though I know that some say this...'

'Shut the fuck up.' Sam snaps back. 'I'm in no mood for one of your spouts of knowledge. I know about dehydration. You don't need to recite from some book you've read. Where's Floyd? Where did he go?'

Spencer assumes it was to the kitchen, but now he's not so sure. He certainly went through the door the staff used, but whether he went up the stairs or down... well he doesn't know. He'd made an assumption. 'Shall we go and find out?' Spencer presses his hands onto the mattress either side of himself, getting ready to get to his feet.

'Go look for Floyd? When he's in one of those moods from hades? Are you kidding me? No... I don't want to go and find him, but I'd like to know where he is. That's not the same thing. I would like to know so that I can avoid him.' Sam is staring out of the window... looking at the snow falling steadily now. Big fat flakes floating down and covering everything.

Spencer moves his hands from the bed and places them back on his knees. Maybe he should ask if Sam wants a bath, but then the tub is in the bedroom and he'd have to watch – well wouldn't _have_ to watch, but would feel he would offer to help and in helping he'd end up watching or even touching; JUST a shoulder! Not anything else!

'I think he went to the kitchen.' Spencer says. He can feel his throat beginning to weld shut. He needs to get a drink now. There's wine. There's whiskey... there's water for the tub... that is where he decides to get a drink from.

'I bet he's gone into the attic.' Sam mutters, runs a dirty finger over the window reveal and checks for dust. 'You know I didn't mean to do wrong. I just wanted something for myself. I knew he'd attack me in your apartment. I wanted him to do that. It was all going so well and I voided the danger and put things right and really... Really why the fuck do I bother talking to you? You don't understand do you?'

Spencer was looking at Sam's boots. 'Why the attic?'

'Because that's where he's got that bloke... OH! Didn't you know? My bad. I assumed as he was your BFF then he'd have told you, but no... look... it's me he tells his secrets to, not you... so maybe you can start remembering that you're just his part time fuck and nothing else. You're his dirty little bit of pleasure but he don't love you and he don't really lust after you, because it's some blond he's got tied up in the attic he's gone to slap around in his fury and then fuck. Not you. You haven't been his number one fuck for years.'

Sam and his spiteful mouth. Spencer knew that very much like himself he'd say things just for that slap... so he could feel something. It didn't have to be love or passion or even a distant sort of _like_ but he would be able to feel something other than the numbness flowing through his body. Spencer wasn't going to slap Sam. He wasn't going to show that what was being said was very deserving of a slap. Just to shut him up.

So Spencer gets to his feet, brushing away bits of fabric which seemed to want to stick to his dirty hair and walks to the tub, turning on the water and cupping it into his mouth with his hands. His ear throbs as he bends down, but for now he ignores that.

'You having a bath?' There are footsteps behind Spencer, so he quickly stands, moves out of Sam's way. Doesn't like Sam standing behind him. No trust there. Sam's just as likely to hit him on the head with a brick or start pawing at him, pressing against him... or perhaps a drowning?

'Just having a drink of water. There is hot water though, if you want a wash.' He speaks quickly, his tone risen a pitch, but seems to be able to talk whole sentences which is a good start.

'Are you telling me I need a _wash_?' Sam spits at Spencer, giving him a curl of the lip.

'I'm saying it's available if needed. Nothing else.' Thirst quenched nicely, he sits back down on the bed, but the vision of the blond, upstairs... up in the attic with Floyd has filled his head now, as Sam knew it would. He stands again. Listens to the sounds of running water. Sam is going to bathe. He should stay... make sure nothing goes wrong. After the business in the library and the lounge with the furniture, Spencer's not sure that anywhere is really safe.

'Go look for him then.' Sam grunts.

Spencer turns to look and sees he's removing the horrible boots... steam is coming from the tub... there is a soft smell of bathing liquid... roses. Floyd likes his boys to smell of roses and now that causes a frown to cross Spencer's face as it is Sam who naturally smells that way... as Floyd smells of musk, Sam smells of roses.

'I should stay.' Spencer once again sits. He has his back to Sam. There is a horrible temptation to turn and look. It's making his breathing come hard and deep... it's making his skin tingle. Maybe Sam is right. Perhaps it would be best if he goes and looks for Floyd – out there – where Constance the dead hermaphrodite is wandering. He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. 'I'll stay.' He mutters as much to convince himself as to let Sam know. 'Let me know if you want anything.' Oh why?! Why say that? Now Sam is going to open his revolting mouth and ask for all kinds of things and actually if Floyd is away playing with the damned blond then why in hell's name shouldn't he? Except he's not a slag. He doesn't sleep around.

Not always.

Not often.

Not recently.

Just... He turns slowly when he hears the sound of Sam lowering himself into the water.

'If... what Floyd said about names... true names... what will happen?' He asks Sam.

'Nothing. They already knew his name. They knew my name. They know everything. Why wouldn't they. They are gods. If the gods don't know the names of the people who are their creations then who does? Floyd's just making a fuss about nothing because that's what he does. They'll do nothing to him. However, I know I'm different. I can feel the warmth inside of me. I know now that I have a soul. I can actually... when I talk... almost know if what I'm saying is what I should be saying and that was a big problem before. But now I'm not such a dick...' Sam ducks under the water to wash his hair, blows bubbles and reappears with a smile on his face. 'In around the early 1700's a group of men got together and tried bringing people back from the dead. It was a particular group in Romania who Floyd became associated with. They would dig up bodies, like the resurrectionists and they'd stuff them full of chemicals and try to get them animated again. But it's not possible you see? You need a spirit to be able to reanimate something which is dead. It's obvious really. We all know that when the heart stops pumping the spirit around the body, that we die. Unless you're Floyd, obviously, he doesn't count, but I know from what I've found out and what he's told me, that he went on many trips to dig up corpses. The group gave up in the end, but there's books... they wrote papers and essays on their work and Floyd has all of that in the library – and Constance was part of a newer wave of the _Roma Medac _which is what they started to call themselves and electricity was easily available and better understood and that was used to try again to reanimate the dead. Iolanda was part of this too... but you might have guessed he was a nasty piece of work. Iolanda encouraged _Roma Medac_ and said he could bring loved ones back to life, which of course he couldn't... but it was fun for him for a while... anyway, Constance... somehow somewhere in a back street in some small Romanian village, she reanimated. A true Frankenstein's monster. So if she's out there wandering the hallways and slithering up and down the stairs – well I feel safer here. All Iolanda really managed to do was skin beautifully. He really is a master. Floyd is good too.' Sam suddenly stood, splashing water and bubbles and bouncing out of the tub before Spencer had had the chance to stop looking. Sam stands there dripping and Spencer bends down, picks up a yellow fluffy towel and throws it at him.

'Cover up.' He tells Sam. 'And why are you telling me about this _Roma Medac_ thing. How has what happened to Constance got to do with what is happening now. Why was Floyd aware of you being close... because he was very sure of that and where the heck did he find you? Have you been in communication with him? What have you brought with you? Can you actually give some information that's worth having?'

Sam wraps the towel around his middle and stands there with his hair and upper half dripping. The room isn't cold as such, but it's not warm enough to walk around wet.

'If you wait so I can answer what you've asked. It's to do with spirits. Things that live outside a life form.'

'You're talking about ghosts.' Spencer smirked at this stupidity.

'Laugh and mock all you want. Then explain what's going on... then tell me I'm wrong.'

Spencer remained sitting on the bed and did what Sam had suggested. He attempted in his own head to give a reason for events. Floyd had set it up. Sam had set it up. Someone else had... They seemed the reasonable answers and as he'd not actually found that to be wrong, he was far happier to settle on that, than on the idea of ghosts, spirits and Constance being re-animated. Once this had been decided... it was a prank, or maybe more like some trick a fake (aren't they all fake?) medium, who a hundred years ago had invented all sorts of wonderful contraptions and ways to trick the bereaved into thinking they were talking to the dead. This was no different. More elaborate, of course, times had moved on and people were a naturally suspicious and sceptical lot, so you needed to use tricks which actually amazed and didn't make you groan with disappointment. It's what the worlds great magicians and illusionists still did... they're called _illusionists_ for a good reason. It's not real.

Therefore what Spencer decided he needed to do was to start out at the beginning and have a closer look at the library.

But that meant shedding his cloak of cowardice and putting on his scientific hat.

'Right.' He stands, goes to a box of clothing and pulls out a green shirt, which he tosses to Sam. 'Put that on. I don't have anything else what will come close to fitting you and that will come to your knees. Are you coming with me to investigate the library or are you going to stay here? Either way is good with me.'

'I was at some point accosted when sleeping.' Sam pulls something from his jacket pocket. Something dark wrapped in plastic film. 'They nicked my underclothes and though I don't always wear them I was particularly fond of the ones I had and had got used to feeling them there when I had a... when... when I had a piss. And so when they were lost I bought new ones. There were three in a pack so here... to your great delight, I am sure... and more than a bit of relief, I have spare, clean and new boxers – cotton/lycra... snug as a bug in a rug.' Sam gives Spencer a wink and pulls some nice new underpants out of the pack, tossing the bag onto the bed. He then proceeds to hop around the room putting on such a display that Spencer wonders if Sam had ever been in a circus, but no, more likely porn movies. 'Now... to the library – you with a head full of numbers and reasoning and me with the truth. Who's going to win this time? You? Probably. No one ever believes a word I say.' Sam places a hand on the door handle. The shirt is nearly to his knees, he's barefoot now, which makes him suddenly look very short and very childlike. As though a kid wearing his dad's shirt. It creates a sickening feeling in Spencer's stomach. The back of the shirt is wet where Sam's hair is dripping on it... the dark water mark gradually making its way downwards like a grim snot coloured monster. Not that Spencer wears snot coloured shirts – it's because it's wet.

Spencer can see that Sam seems to be concentrating on something his finger tips are tapping the side of his leg... he wants to ask what he's doing, but doesn't. If something terrible goes wrong, Spencer doesn't want Sam to blame him for it.

Slowly the door opens. It doesn't do a creepy squeak. There are no guttering candles. The lights are on in the passage outside the room and there's nothing screaming in some distant attic room. Everything looks harmless and normal and for a moment Spencer relaxes... He can see by the way Sam is now walking out of the room and away towards the stairs that Sam is a very long way from relaxed.

Who is the fool?

The one who doesn't believe yet has already seen the proof? The one who knows about the monsters under the bed but is going to go check that the monster really is there?

Or is it the one who does believe and is going to go prove he's right even if it kills him. Well – Sam can run fast – he can outrun a few spooks. Surely?

There's no sound of wind screeching around the eves. There is only the sound of two people walking down a strip of red carpet which ran down the middle of the passage. Doors led off on both sides. One of which Spencer knows is the bathroom – there's a very fancy toilet behind one of the doors; behind another is a closet full of multi-coloured bedding. Yet another is another large bedroom – but the door to that is locked. Most of the doors have large brass handles and locks. None of them have keys sticking out of them. Spencer has just taken what Floyd says is behind them as truth, and now that truth is taking a bit of a hammering. He's no longer sure. He wants to see for himself. Be given the chain with the keys and walk around this silent house and discover for himself what's there. Behind one of them, Constance? Spencer rubs at his nose trying to force himself to remember that Constance is just stuffed in a cupboard somewhere and this whole show is exactly that – just a show.

The galley looks down onto the main hall and for a moment the pair of them stand at the turned oak rail and peer down. From up here the place takes on a whole new world of weird. The cluttered things which don't match seem to be placed at random. The paintings – all of them is seems – the faces are looking upwards, staring at them as they look down.

Sam makes a small hissing sound and backs away.

'What?' Spencer asks... in a whisper.

'I just hate the artwork. What was he thinking of when he got those?'

Spencer has to agree. They are quite revolting, but he's surprised that Sam doesn't like them. Rich dark oils with pale faces peering out of gloom. Expressions of terror. Not very warm and welcoming to have in the hallway of a lovely old house like this.

'They are strange.' Spencer says. He would say more, but Sam is already walking to the stairs and Spencer doesn't want to raise his voice to be heard and this house seems to suck words away. He can see as he walks closer to Sam, that Sam's hand is gripping the side rail tightly. His knuckles are white... He's staring down the stairs in front of him. Standing next to Sam he can see that he's grinding his teeth and Spencer himself has his jaw clenched. There is something down there. They can both feel it. A dreadful feeling of foreboding fills Spencer. He can feel his heart racing. Wishes he had a weapon. A fire poker, a baseball bat, something hard he can smack whatever it is with. Spencer expects to feel that hand on his back again, pushing him this time and wonders if that is why Sam is holding on so tightly, but no feeling of pressure comes... just the building pressure in his head. Guns are good, but Spencer knows that they don't stop the real monsters. A bullet, no matter what it's made of will not stop whatever it is waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs, hiding in a darkened corner somewhere.

Go back and wait?

He thinks this and then looks at pathetic Sam who is going down, step my step, grinding his teeth and holding on for grim death, but he's not turning back.

They both hear it. They both stop. Spencer is one step above Sam and comes down to be on the same level so ears can be whispered in. Sam shakes his head like he's a dog, sending a spray of water over the side of Spencer's face.

'Did you hear that?' Sam's lips are pressed together. He speaks without moving them.

'A... a... a... yes.' And a long sigh.

'What do you think it was?' Sam turns to look at Spencer, both have wide eyes. It's as though the wider you open them the more you will see. It's ridiculous but they're both doing it. Trying to see something which is most likely a rat behind the walls.

'Rodents.' Spencer tells Sam.

They both nod. It's a good idea. Neither of them believe it, but they both take comfort in that small possibility.

'Let's get off the stairs before something happens.' Sam mutters through those frozen lips.

Spencer gives his own lips a quick lick. They dry out when he's nervous, sometimes to the point where the small scar on his lip from the many splits he's had there opens and he bleeds. Not quite to that point now, but it's getting close.

They seem to be holding hands when they reach the last step and tread onto the polished floor. They both let out a sigh of relief and look down at their hands. Spencer is certain that Sam grasped his hand. Sam likewise is sure that it was Spencer who reached out for a comforting hand. Not that it really mattered. The grip released and they stood there for a short moment doing nothing. No monsters pushed them down the stairs and nothing has leapt out at them now that they've arrived. The door to the lounge is ajar. They are both looking at the gap. Listening for something. Sniffing slightly, smelling the air – though Spencer can only smell polish and the smell of the old furniture and wall hangings. Spencer is not looking at the oil paintings, because a quick glance made him think that the faces were now looking at them at a different angle. They were no longer looking up at the gallery. An illusion. As was everything here. That was the only reasonable answer.

So the two brave heroes walked to the lounge door. Sam pushed the door open and they both stood there looking at the brightly lit room.

'There you are. I was about to ring the gong.' Floyd stood from where he was kneeling at the side of a low table. 'Food.' He waved an arm. 'Let's sit and talk. We need to get everything in the open. All of it. Then we can argue for a while... throw some food at each other and then decide what to do about Constance. Have either of you seen her?'

'You would have heard my scream if I had.' Spencer tells Floyd. The atmosphere should have relaxed, yet for some reason there's still that uneasy feeling that something is down here. Something evil. Spencer wonders if it was Floyd. Is that feeling of skin crawling vileness coming from the man he jokingly says he loves?

'I don't want fucking tomato soup.' Sam snaps. It seems he too can feel that weirdness in the room. The house. 'I want potato and onion soup and I like it with toast, not bread, for fuck's sake. You know that.'

'I burnt the toast. Go make some more if you want and there's a variety of different soups in the freezer.' Floyd's anger seemed gone. He'd filed it away for later.

But where was he keeping it? It had not left for all time, that was sure. He'd just put it aside and made soup.

'What's in the attic?' Spencer asks as he kneels on the floor and looks down at the bowl or orangey red liquid. Parmesan cheese had been sprinkled on the top. A jug of coffee and some mugs stood in the middle of the table and a plate of chunky bread, spread thickly with butter.

'The attic?' Floyd waves a hand at Sam. 'Are you going to sulk or eat? No skin off my nose if you want to go hungry.'

'Am I forgiven for whatever it is you think I did wrong?'

'No... not forgiven, it's not forgotten either. I just don't know, yet, what to do about it and taking your head and offering it to the gods might not be the right thing to do, but it's where my inclinations are taking me, so you'd do best to not rile me more than you have already.' Floyd pointed at the bowl of soup. 'Join us. Please.'

'Yes the attic.' Spencer manages to cut in. 'What's up there? Can I go and see?'

Floyd slowly stirs his soup, but he's looking carefully at Spencer. He seemed a bit puzzled. 'The attic? Why the sudden interest? I think there's some old stuff from when there was a nursery. A cradle, a rocking chair and shit loads of old toys, rocking horse... trains... dolls... that sort of shit. Nothing of great interest or value. Why the hell do you want to know what's up there?'

'So I can go and look?' Spencer doesn't answer the question but the soup is blinding! It's amazing. It's incredible what Floyd can warm up in a microwave oven.

Floyd wipes at his mouth. He's looking at Sam who is slowly sipping off the edge of his spoon. 'Go look if that's what makes you hard. It's not somewhere I've been for a while.'

'Sam said...'

'Fuck you! Always fucking blame me for every damned thing! I hate soup. I really fucking hate it and...'

Floyd's hand was over the table and grabbing the bowl out of Sam's way. 'No food throwing in my lounge kiddo. I said if you don't like it go make something of your own.' He places the bowl on the floor.

'Go down into the kitchen alone? Are you a freak? What the hell? With that bloody Constance walking about... ready to jump out and strangle me. I'm not going any damned where on my bloody own.'

Floyd nods and sighs slightly. 'Constance is not a living creature. She's dead. Has been for a long time. She was stitched together... stuffed... she was just skin and a bit of bone. She is long dead and cannot come back to life. That's the end of it. Now shut up about Constance...'

'What about Princess?' Spencer asks. 'Surely that's all she was?'

'Yeah... what about that? Answer _that,_ dickwad. Tell us something we'll believe.' Sam jumps to his feet and seems to be looking for something to hurl at Floyd, but suddenly the coffee and bread have been removed from the table out of his reach – the bread by Spencer, the coffee by Floyd. They both know about Sam's food throwing tantrums.

'Princess.' Floyd licks his lips. 'She was special.'

'But you animated her. You and this _Roma Medac_ thing? That's how you did it? So it can be done. That's what I'm saying. If you could do it once you, or someone else, could do it again. Yes?'

'Sam says too much sometimes. Actually a lot of the time. I'm about to say something to you, Sam which I think you'll find upsetting. If you wish to attack something, go outside and jump in the snow. Throw something in here and I'll throw you... understood?' He waited for Sam's nod and then carried on. 'That warm fuzzy feeling you had inside is not what happens when you receive a soul. It's what happens when you're being scried. Watched. Spied upon. It's what happens when the spirits from the darkness guide you and give you purpose. It's meant to feel good. If it felt bad no one would do it, now would they? Some feel that pain whilst living will secure you peace upon death – which is crap. Some believe that the warm and lovely feeling inside of you, that feeling of grace and love and happiness – that delivered now, payment later... a reverse if you will. You have no soul Sammy. You are possessed by some very minor demon... Very minor... insignificant, if you will. Such a small dot of a thing that it has no powers over you, because you yourself being partially demonic are too strong for the thing crawling around giving you belly hugs and love. However you've drawn the attention of others. Bigger things. What you did – the slaying you did – my good soldier – that was excellent work. Where you have failed is in what you asked for payment. You'll not get a soul. I made you in such a way that it cannot happen. End of.'

'End of?' Sam slumps on a couch. 'You're just a fucking liar. I know you've got the blond in the attic. Be honest to Spencer and then I might believe you.'

'Kids... I was warned never to have them. "They'll always be trouble." I was told. I should have listened.'

Spencer though, felt that the conversation and chatter had deviated from what he really needed to know. Where the heck was Constance? Could she be animated. Could someone do such a thing? And was Floyd banging the blond somehow and somewhere? He'd not denied the liaison before so why would he now? Then again there was the niggling idea Sam had put in his head. He was no longer Floyd's number one.

Actually, as Spencer stared at his slowly cooling soup, he wondered if he was just in the way now. Someone Floyd felt obliged to keep close.

'The thing is,' Spencer spoke quietly, but in the silence of the house it was perfectly loud enough, 'Constance was out there in a glass cabinet and now she isn't. Either she broke out and walked off or you took her, or someone else did. Either way, I would very much like to know her whereabouts to put my mind at rest. Can we go search for her? Do something to stop her wandering around if that's what's happening? I know what you are capable of, Floyd, Sam... I know what others are capable of. I've seen it. I've been there. I know. Now what I want is assurance that Constance isn't going to jump out at me and eat my face. A chant? A spell... something? Anything. You surely can't be happy that she's prowling around. What is Sam doing with his hands?' Spencer finished his little chat with no stuttering and no sound of panic. It was damned impressive! At least to Floyd it was.

'I could stop an animation.' Sam spoke up, stands from the couch and walks back to the table, where he kneels and stares at the place his food had been. 'It's more or less what I did to Ash. I had to destroy the thing inside of him. Unfortunately it destroyed Ash too, but the person Ash really was, was actually long dead. So if I could kill, no not kill so much as displace, what was in him, then surely I can do that to Constance too? Could I try? It's like a new skill and as for my hands... it's a form of communication. I can tune in and with that I get like a power-up that lets me concentrate and gives me a better chance. It's not easy. I can also sort of – how can I put it – sense things, but it's not a raw ability like Floyd has. I have to work on it. I have to keep to myself and concentrate and sometimes that can take weeks. It builds up inside. But I could try?'

Floyd was kneeling again and putting the bread and coffee back in reach. He peered at Sam and nodded slowly. 'You're developing. One day you might grow to be five foot seven. Then where will we be? I don't think I could stomach an full blown adult Sam. Imagine the wreckage he'd leave behind.' Floyd smiled. He actually seemed proud of his little protégée. 'You go and do what you have to do. Prepare.'

'On my own? Alone? With no one with me? Are you fucking with me? No. I'm not going out there on my own. This place is spooky beyond all belief and I won't be able to just zen out if I'm afraid something is going to crawl out from under the bed. So no. Fuck that for a game of chess. I'll prepare and stuff, but not alone. I want one of you two with me all the time. Not that I think Spencer will be much of a guard. But beggars and choosers and whatever.'

It feels to Spencer, as though there is too much to do and none of it seems to be moving along very fast. He wants to search for Constance now! Not next week, not even tomorrow or in an hour. He wants to know exactly where the ugly thing is. He turns to Floyd to ask – beg... request that they start looking after they've finished coffee, but Floyd's interest in Spencer has waned again. He's looking at Sam. He's looking at Sam in a way which used to be reserved for him. He's looking at Sam in the way he looked at the blond.

'Do you know his name?' Spencer suddenly asks.

Floyd's eyes move slowly away from Sam and back to Spencer, but again he notes that Floyd is not looking _at_ him, but over his shoulder, or through him, but those eyes are not drinking him in as they once did.

'Whose name, Babes?'

'The blond.' Spencer moves slightly so he was in line which Floyd's eyes, yet Floyd moves slightly, turns his head but an inch and again he's looking not at Spencer but at some broken furniture behind him. Spencer would love to think it's guilt, Floyd is displaying here, but it's not. He knows better than to think Floyd ever feels any sort of guilt. It would mean he's at fault. Floyd doesn't easily feel that anything is ever his fault.

'Levin.' Floyd replies.

Spencer nods, stands, sits on the couch Sam had been sitting on. Stands. Puts his hands in his pockets, takes them out, runs fingers through his hair... folds his arms across his chest. 'I see.'

'And he's in the attic.' Sam adds. 'When Floyd gets his eyes on a creature as lovely as that, he's not going to let it go. Not even for you.'

Floyd stands, banging into the low table with his shins and spilling the coffee, swiping at the other things and sending cold soup off to the side... splattering the floor and rugs with delicious soup, bread, and coffee.

'Sam, you need to shut up. Shut up now or I'll hit you so hard that there'd be no coming back from it. Not again. Not this time. I'd make sure of it. My temper is fuelled and you just keep on throwing fire at it. I am going to show you exactly how pissed off I am with you. Very soon. Unless you disappear from my hearing. Now. Spencer. I will and always have had who I want. You've never stopped me. You never will stop me. I'll screw who and what and when I want. What the hell suddenly makes you think that your needs and opinions have any weight? You're nothing! You're nothing to me. Either of you. It's a twisted sense of duty that binds me to you. Don't, please don't give me cause to remember that you don't fucking deserve my protection. Don't give me a reason to regret that I'm still hanging around with you, because actually, being here with you is really the last sodding thing I want to be doing. Understand? Does that bloody well penetrate your thick brains? You're only not dead because killing the pair of you will mean I have to clean up the mess. Now get away from me. Both of you. Just get the hell out of my face.'

Spencer stood his ground. Pinching his inner arms, taking sharp shallow breaths, licking his lips, looking at Floyd, at Sam at the soup, at Floyd's booted feet, at Floyd's hands clenched in fists and then again at Sam.

Spencer's words came, sharp and fast. 'Since I was a child. A child! Since I was a child you've been there, chipping bits off me. Grinding me down, chewing me up, spitting me out, abandoning me, rescuing me... never loving me though. I don't understand your need to do what you do. I'm not the kid I was. I'm not that gawky teenager. I'm not that twitchy, odd young man I was and that's not because I'm older. That's because you've done this to me. You... For some godforsaken reason you saw me and thought you'd dig in your nails and ruin me. Well you've achieved it. It's done. Congratulations. I've not the willpower to leave you and I don't want to be with you. I love you because you've been so much of my life and I cannot just discard that and pretend I never loved you, because I did. But it ends here. Today. I've had enough. Go and have your blond. Invite him to dinner. Why the heck would I care? Why?'

'Whoah.' Sam hissed. 'That's some suicide note you just spoke.'

Floyd walks towards the door leading to the hallway. He turns and glances back at Spencer. 'Your days are marked. Since when have I needed your permission to ask someone to dinner? Who the _fuck_ do you think you are? Was my collection not enough to show you what I really am? I'm not someone who's ever going to be more that what you know I am, Reid. I'm Floyd Flanders Franks and if you can't get your stupid head around that after all this time, then that's hardly my fault. I've given you enough examples. Sam... to me.' He clicks his fingers and Sam gives Spencer a quick look and then walks slowly to Floyd, head bowed.

'You're leaving me here, alone?' Spencer now takes a few steps of his own. Maybe he'd said too much. Perhaps Floyd was going to leave. The bike only has room for two people. He couldn't take both of them with him. 'Floyd! Answer me. Tell me what the hell is going on?'

There was for now, no reply. Sam was grabbed by the hand and with the sound of shins smacking on stair treads was dragged whimpering back up the stairs it seems that they'd only just braved to come down. Spencer broke in to a fast walk. It was the slowest speed he could manage. He wanted to walk. He didn't want to look alarmed. He didn't want Floyd dragging Sam off up to the room he thought was for the two of them! Not Sam... never Sam... He thought Sam had been discarded, killed off, left behind, but...

'NO!' Spencer is now shouting out and taking the stairs up two at a time, forgetting about Constance and the monsters in the shadows. Forgetting that the real monster was the one dragging Sam, who was not even on his feet but being dragged like a dead animal – dragged to the monster's lair. 'Floyd – Stop!' Why did he think that Floyd would take any notice of him? What made him think that anything he ever said mattered even slightly to Floyd. It didn't. It never did. It didn't now. Floyd didn't even look back. The door was opened, and Floyd walked in with Sam's legs flailing and kicking and Spencer was very briefly glad that Sam had underwear on.

However – a bit of hope. The door was not closed to him. Spencer – with his head spinning with alarm and his lips tingling, followed them. Stood there as Floyd released Sam and then turned to look at the pair of them.

'So,' Floyd hissed between his teeth. 'you want an end to it. Let's stand here like the grown-ups we are and discuss how this is going to be. You tell me what you want. What the hell do you want, Reid. I'm tired. I'm worn out by you, by Sam and by myself. It's time to bury it. Move on. Each of us in our separate ways. The problem is how that's going to come about, because you're sure as hell is hot, not going to leave me. I'm not going to leave you. So tell me, Reid. Give me the answer to that. What are we going to do to rid ourselves of this damned curse... as it's a curse I feel it is.'

Spencer opened his mouth to say something and then closed it again.

'I don't want to die.' Sam moaned from where he was scrabbling around on the floor. 'Please, Floyd, I beg you... please don't kill me. I'll do anything you want. I'm so sorry... no! Not sorry... I apologise for what I've done. I was stupid and I know that now, but I just don't want to die! Give me a chance. Please...'

Spencer had a look of immense distaste on his face as Sam bowed to Floyd. Supplicated himself in front of him, laying on his stomach, arms out to his side, kissing Floyd's boots. If that was what was needed to get out of here alive...

Well Spencer was not quite that far gone yet. He chewed for a moment on his bottom lip... could feel that crack beginning to form on his lip and could taste the metallic tang of delicate skin about to burst open of its own accord. He could feel the saliva dry up in his mouth, heat rise up from inside and crawl up the side of his neck to his face.

'Please – I'll do anything you ask of me. I'll do it. Just let me be. Let me... please... Floyd please...' Sam whimpered on and Floyd looked down at him, not with disgust, but with a look of love, adoration, contentment.

'You're not going to join Sam?' Floyd asked something over Spencer's shoulder.

'No.' He spat back at him. 'You always say that you kneel to no man. Well nor do I. And I certainly don't kiss boots.'

'Plucky little shit, aren't you? You surprise me sometimes. You're a lot stronger than you appear. I would think that with a lot of therapy and some years locked away somewhere, that you might even come out of this almost a whole person. And... well that bit of strength has in the past been admirable, but I've come to realise that it's the cord that binds us... and I don't think I'm ever going to be able to rid myself of that and it's not the thing I admire any longer. It's a pathetic clingy need you have.'

'Wait.' Spencer moves closer, but not so close as to touch a whimpering Sam with his foot. 'Actually if you care to think back, it's you who always comes back. It's you who won't allow me to move on and recover. Not the other way around. If I'm the bug you seem to think I am, then why keep coming back to me? Why lock me away like an animal? Why treat me like you have done when I've never done a thing in retaliation. I've always been there for you.'

'And for Agent Aaron Hotchner... Standing there, wet, dripping... wet hair from the shower. You came home to me stinking of him and then dared to deny it. You came home many times smelling of different whores and denied it. Always there for me... truth. Always there for anyone who looked at you right... who was for sale... who was cheap enough. For the gods know you'd not want anything clean. You'd not be happy if you're not bleeding and in pain.'

Spencer swallows and seems to nod and shake his head at the same time. 'You twist everything. You were away for months! What did you expect? I didn't know if you were ever coming back. You wanted me to sit around moping?'

'YES!' Floyd howls back at him, kicking Sam out of the way, moving much too fast and Spencer is backing out of the room. 'I expect you to stay loyal to me! I expect undying loyalty! That's what I fucking well expect! I'm an Angel, Reid. I'm a creature of the sodding gods! Of course you should wait for me! What the fuck sort of question is that? What the hell is wrong with you? Why do you play these games?'

'He's going to kill us.' Sam cries out as he crawls away to hide behind some of the fancy fabrics hanging from the walls.

'I am the next thing to a bleeding _god_ and you play games? You think it's fine to mess with me? You think you can get away with that? You really think that I give a flying fuck about you? NO! No... fuck no... why would I continue to stand here and not be breaking your neck if I didn't care!'

There was a moment of silence. A dreadful silence. Spencer thinks back to that time when he was cowering in the bathroom, bleeding... listening to a similar silence, and it was no less terrifying now than it had been back then. It was worse. He could see Floyd was looking right at him, delving into his mind, searching out his thoughts, dreams, nightmares and tearing them apart. Spencer's eyes look away, he blinks as though that will break whatever connection Floyd seems to have made, but he finds that slowly, baby steps, shaking, that he's walking forwards... now it is he who is looking over Floyd's shoulder and he can see Sam moving, quickly, like a spider on his hands and knees, scuttling towards the window. There is still a silence. No one is speaking. Spencer wonders if anyone is breathing though he can feel his chest heaving in breaths and his heart pounding, there is still an unearthly silence. Then one word which is breathed out of Floyd's mouth... maybe it wasn't a word. Perhaps it was Spencer's imagination, but regardless he finds that he is doing what Floyd wants him to do. He sinks to his knees in front of him. Breath shuddering out as his knee thuds against the floor sending up a shock of pain into his hip.

'Kneel.' That had been the word.

Spencer stares at Floyd's boots.

'Tell me.' Floyd now hisses. 'I need to hear it from you.'

Though what that meant, Spencer didn't know. What he did know was that something was broken a long way beyond any repair. The allure Floyd once held was gone. He was not kneeling at the feet of a man he thought he needed but at the feet of a monster. That wonderful and comforting smell of musk didn't seem to be there. All he could smell now was rot, decay and something so dreadful that he knew without doubt that if Floyd but touched him he would die.

'Tell me – or has the cat got your well worked tongue again?'

Spencer looks up slightly. He can see the worn black denim of Floyd's jeans. He can see the small creases which had formed at the side of Floyd's knees. He can see how thin the fabric was on the knee, but he looks no further. Beyond Floyd, Sam has climbed onto the window sill, pressing himself into the reveal, fingers playing with the window latch. He's going to run. Spencer knows. He doesn't blame him, but he does wonder how far he'll get. Wonders if he'll even manage to still be alive when he falls from the window. It's a long way to jump. The snow isn't going to break a fall. He'll break his back. His legs... he'll break something... and for a moment he almost cares. Remembers Sam laying across his coffee table. Knows that whatever injuries he does to himself he'll drag himself away and repair. It's what the pair of them do... Floyd and Sam.

'Tell me.' Floyd hisses out the word this time. It's a bit louder and Spencer slides his vision away from Sam and back to the knees of Floyd's jeans.

'I don't understand what you want me to say.' He sighs back.

Spencer sees, those knees bending. He watches as the disappear and Floyd kneels in front of him. They're not touching, yet he can feel the energy coming from Floyd. He can feel it and it's not anything even remotely Angelic. Spencer moans softly. He wants to move back. Get out of the way, but somehow he's immobile. He can't even lift his eyes from where they are looking now, at Floyd's chest, at the dirty old, black waistcoat with a double row of small black buttons. He can see years worth of ingrained dirt making the fabric look almost stiff... Floyd's white shirtsleeves which are rolled up to his elbows is aged, tatty... stinking and stained, the collar black with dirt. The illusion is dying. Is this what other people see when they look at him? Spencer doesn't know.

There's a click. Sam has opened the window, and Spencer can tell by the way Floyd's chest swivels slightly that he's looking, seeing what Sam is up to.

'They'll tear you apart, little one.' Floyd says. 'It's me... me being here... that's what's protecting you. Leave and you will die. You need me. You need me as Reid needs me.'

Spencer watches. He sees Sam look back and nod. He sees a slight indecision cross his face. He's got his leather jacket in his hand and he drops it out of the window.

'I thought you loved me.' Sam whined.

'I do love you.' Floyd replied, but still hasn't moved to get up and stop Sam from this insanity. 'But I can make another one.' Sam scuffles to the edge of the window. Sits with his legs dangling, but is looking back at Floyd. Again there seems to be indecision, but if he was having second thoughts, the decision is taken out of his hands. His head snaps back to the outside world. He glances down once and with a scream he's gone... a splatter of blood forms a pattern on the window.

'You bastard.' Spencer cries. 'You absolute bastard.' He tries to get to his feet, but can't. He's welded there on his knees.

'Tell me.' And Spencer lets out a yelp of pain as a hand rests on his head.


	8. CESSATION

Chapter Eight.

**CESSATION:** _A temporary or complete stopping; discontinuance._

The window slams shut. A cold breeze seems to surround Spencer as he stays there, kneeling and waiting to see what Floyd is going to do to him. The initial pain that shot through him has died back. It feels like a cancer drilling through his body. Sitting there waiting for Floyd to release it and tell it to take over, take control... have him, destroy him... Each breath he takes is painful. He is shaking, his eyes are watering, his lips part and he lets out a small gasp.

Floyd sits back on his heels, runs a hand down the side of Spencer's face, over his shoulder, down his arm and fingers wrap around Spencer's hand.

'I have loved you more than you could imagine.' Floyd lifts Spencer's hand to his lips and now Spencer looks into Floyd's face and sees the dark shadows under Floyd's eyes, the cracked dry lips, the rough dry skin. 'There have been others as you know. Yet what I am forced to do to you is more painful than I could imagine. You've become a part of me and I never intended that to happen. You're insidious. A disease. A vile... and putrid thing that has claimed me as much and with as much vigour as I claimed you. I can't just kill you and leave you at the roadside. I can't rip out your throat and let the rivers take you. You need to tell me, Reid. You need to tell me what to do.'

Spencer snatched his hand away from Floyd and also sat back on his heels. It hadn't gone un-noticed that Floyd was calling him _Reid_. It was intentional. It was Floyd's way of showing that there was no longer anything he wanted from him. Yet there was.

'You want me to tell you how I want to die?'

Floyd gave the faintest of nods. 'Quick, slow... by my hand or yours... tell me.'

'And if I don't want to die? If I want to walk away from here and return to my apartment?'

'Oh... oh... You really are stupid if you think that's going to happen. I need to move on and I cannot do that all the time you're alive. Can't you see that? I'll have to keep coming back to you and each time my fury will be worse. Each time I'll do more damage, not only to you but to those around you. I've stayed my hand fairly well... though I could have stopped Sam... That is the sacrifice you have made... That is you. Now tell me.'

'No.' Spencer is looking at his own hands, twisting in his lap. He's looking at them as though, maybe it's the last time he will see them. 'I don't see why I have to make this easy for you. Do what you have to do, Floyd. Just finish it.'

Floyd nods. He looks again over Spencer's shoulder and gestures to someone. Spencer hears light footsteps on the flooring. He can see out of the corner of his eye a boot... not Sam's... too big for Sam. It's a red boot, shiny, crossed laces and straps around ankles. There's a flash of dark jeans tucked safely into them. Spencer thinks that those boots won't be nice and shiny for long. Not if Floyd is going to be dragging this person through the forests as he sulks and battles with himself... because this has always been Floyd's fight. Always been about himself. The feet stop and there is a small temptation to look up, maybe stare this blond in the eyes. See if he's battered and bruised yet, but Spencer somehow thinks he's not... this is Floyd's new bitch... he's going to be gentle... he's going to be loving, sweet... protective and fill the blond's every need – until the innocence has been taken and he's just another battered and drugged up slag with a split lip and no life.

The feet move. The man is standing behind Spencer now. A hand touches his head, grabs his hair, and pulls his head back. Spencer is looking into Floyd's face and still at this late stage he's looking for some sign on love... some sign that this is all a horrible mistake and there's nothing. Floyd is not looking back, his eyes are fixed on the blond.

Final words?

'Floyd?' Spencer hears himself say. He's going to get someone else to finish it? He's not the courage to do this himself?

'I'll let Rossi know where you are.' Floyd mutters. No goodbye... no last kiss. Nothing.

Spencer wants to say more. He wants to ask questions. He needs so many things answered, and the scratch across his neck feels like nothing... He tries to look, tries to move his hand to feel what is going on, but the hand has let go of his hair and he's falling to his side.

He can't breathe. He can't see. He can't move.

But he feels the hand, that rough calloused hand touch the side of his face. He feels a thumb glide over his lips... and then there's nothing.

Rossi got his phone call. It was made by the cell phone he'd given Sam, but it wasn't Sam who made the call. It was a simple message.

'It's over.' Then the phone was dropped to the ground and Floyd walked off through the snow that was still falling – alone.

Obviously it was assumed that Floyd had caused the carnage. And maybe partly they were correct. Smears of blood were found in the snow. There was no sign of Sam. Spencer was found on the floor of an upstairs bedroom. Constance was discovered still very much dead, locked in the large walk in freezer. The blond whose fingerprints matched those on the knife next to Spencer was found cowering, bloody and beaten, yet alive, in the attic. His red boots still shiny.

The whole house was torn apart searching for Flanders. All they managed to find were traps, tricks... things to make doors suddenly slam, to make books fly off shelving. There were certainly rodents in the walls and there were secret passages and doorways throughout the house.

Oh and they found the small building full of bones. A charnel.

They took the blond, who called himself, Levin, in for questioning, but if there had been a mind there once, now it was gone. They needed to know what had happened. Why were his fingerprints on the knife. How had Floyd planted them there. What was his part in it?

'I slit his throat. He was taking Floyd from me. He _did_ need to die.'

And months passed and so far he's not spoken another coherent word, though the staff at the special and secretive unit he's kept in say he cries in the night. Cries of terror, not regret.

Spencer was buried, so they claimed... in an iron casket. Which was then covered in concrete. They didn't want someone to come dig it up again. It was a short and sweet service. Eyes were watching. They knew Floyd would turn up. He wouldn't be able to stop himself. If they had anything right about Flanders then the fact that he would come to see Spencer's final resting place was certain.

They checked security cameras. They had someone on guard there for a month. They checked the site daily for a sign that Floyd had been there.

There was nothing.

He didn't show himself. It would have been some sort of comfort to think he'd crawled away and died. It would have been more comfort to have seen remains. Something they could identify so that this name could be crossed off their list.

Well not just yet.

Floyd doesn't give up that easily.

They've removed the bones from where he'd had them stored. Floyd watches this process from the distance. He can't see facial expressions. He hopes that they're impressed with the work he'd carried out. All those years of collecting... now what for?

Nothing. He has nothing. No one to torment. No one to hold... no bones to sit and talk with, discuss the future, whatever it might hold. They've taken everything. They pull the house down. Flatten the land, take what is his! Take his legal rights from him, snatching what is his and selling it to someone else... some developer who intends to build a lovely new estate of beautiful homes. For a few weeks, as they strip him of everything he had – at least what he had here – he watches in sullen silence. A sulk. A bitch of a sore head. A sorrow maybe. Then when there is nothing familiar left to cling a hope to, he walks off...

Finds himself outside Reid's apartment door and for some reason expects him to still be there... He can see old scratch marks on the door, which has been sanded down and vanished. There is no smell of Spencer coming from under the door, though. There's music... pop... Floyd doesn't know who it's by, but it's some techno crap that he detests. There's a thought to go in. Have a look around. See if there's anything there to grasp hold of, but then a phone jingles and a female voice answers it. There's nothing there for him. He leaves... goes to find some other corner of the world he might have left his mark.

He can't just be wiped out of existence and he knows that's what they're trying to do. Remove all memory of him. It's not going to work quite like that. It can't work quite like that.

Floyd fucked up. He should have finished Reid himself, but that final act was beyond him. And now the damned curse carries on... it's still there! He cannot get rid of Reid.

Floyd watches kids playing soccer. Little kids. Jack sized kids. He watches from behind the tree-line. Can see Hotchner standing there as though all of his world is here... watching his boy playing and fucking up quite spectacularly. Hotchner still cheers on his little brat.

And he's not here because he wants to watch Jack. He's here because one day he will tell Hotchner that he was here... watching... was within grabbing distance. Could have snatched him from under his damned nose, yet didn't. Fact is he couldn't, but that was Floyd's secret and he didn't have to tell Hotch quite that much... at least not at this early stage of the game.

He needed to know where they'd planted Reid, because he sure as hell is hell, wasn't buried where the grave marker was. Floyd knew that much. They'd put him somewhere else. Somewhere secretive and holy. Somewhere he couldn't reach. Bastards.

Not that he wanted to dig him up! He didn't. The business with Spencer was as buried as the empty iron coffin, what he wanted to do was to... piss on him? Spit on him? Deface the marker? He wasn't sure what it was, but there was unfinished business there and it needed to be done.

Soccer over. The kids have gone, Floyd goes too.

And so it is Dave Rossi who he pins his hopes upon.

Rossi would visit a grave. Rossi would grieve properly. Rossi would feel anger, resentment and even guilt. Possibly Hotchner would too, but Floyd loathes the man to such an extent that he cannot bring himself to dig and follow and stalk the man.

JJ? Who? No... forget it. What are you thinking? That dirty little bitch. No.

Morgan? Now there's someone who pretended to give a shit, but in actuality does not. The matter of the skin colour and the very manner and build of the man always brought bile to Floyd's throat. It was almost physically painful to look at him. It brought flashes of memories of laying on the forest floor and being de-winged by a couple who looked very much like him. A couple who in their own way destroyed him as he'd destroyed Spencer.

It would have to be David Rossi.

Not Garcia... fuck no... not that self centric horse of a woman. Sticking her nose in where it's not wanted in a childish and pathetic manner. Strange creature that she was.

So yes, David Rossi was the mark. Dave would be the one to lead Floyd to where he needed to be.

Rossi was being quite blatant about his actions. He thought it was a bit too much. He had long discussions with the team, what was left of it. Dave didn't like it. Not one bit. They actually had zero proof that Floyd had done what they all accuse him of. Didn't the other guy confess? Some kind of jealous rage?

No, Dave was far from happy.

It would go wrong.

They'd never get Floyd to do what they want, where they want. There was far too much that could go wrong and though there had been possible sightings of someone who almost matched Flanders' description, it could have been any dark haired homeless person. Dave was far from convinced that Floyd was stupid enough to be walking around the city begging for coins. He had other ways to get cash and those ways always involved pain. There had been muggings... there'd even been a couple of murders not too long ago, but they had not been done by Flanders. The MO was completely wrong. But then they each pointed out to each other that Floyd's method of killing Spencer had not been his MO either...

Because the blond did it... Rossi would like to point out... yet doesn't. This needs real closure. It has to end and if this was the method he was being told to use, then that's what he'd do.

'It won't stop him.' Dave points out.

'It will slow him down enough for us to apprehend him.' Dave is told.

He shakes his head. 'I'm not so sure about that.' To Dave this felt not like the capture of a dangerous man but the execution of a rabid animal. It had to be done. He sort of knew that. He'd seen what was left at the house where they found Reid, yet... YET... Rossi points out, it was Flanders who made the call.

'To brag about it.' Dave is told. 'Not so they could get him assistance. To gloat.'

Yet Dave thought there was more to it than that. The body hadn't been mutilated. It was fully dressed and laying as though sleeping on his side. It didn't look like a murder scene. It didn't look like something Floyd had done.

And that was niggling at Rossi... at the back of his head, all the time.

Floyd hadn't done it.

Yet the words, Flanders, and innocent, didn't sit well together. And there was the business with Sam. His blood had been found on the inside of the bedroom window, in the snow under it... drag marks, red and deep, yet nothing more was ever found. The trail just stopped as though someone or more likely some_thing_ had flown down and plucked him out of the snow and taken him away.

And so Rossi buys flowers. Gets into his car and drives, not too fast, not too slow, but he drives in the direction of a small private burial ground. He has a dark woollen coat on. There's a snap to the air even though it's well in to Spring now. The weather isn't showing much sign of warming up. He wraps a scarf around his neck, not to keep himself warm so much as a comfort. His lace up, black leather shoes, scrunch on the gravel. The flowers, a bunch of mixed blues and whites, are wrapped in a cone of cellophane. There's a card glued on to the side for him to write a message, but he's left it blank.

It's a desolate place. Flat land, open grass and a few trees. Dave looks around, but not too carefully, he can see nothing, but he knows they're there.

A small wooden gate creaks as he pushes it. There's a lych gate and Dave pauses here and lifts the flowers to get a better look at them. He didn't pay much. There was no point in that. It was all for show. He sits for a moment, time wasting, pretending it's grief which has welded him to the spot under the small slate roofed shelter. He sits on a worn bench and puts the flowers down next to him. Places his hands over his face. There's a deep sorrow, but not for the reason he's here. It's more a sorrow of his own failings. He should have stopped it. He should have listened to Sam when he was saying about something following him. He should have taken notice and remembered that nothing with that lot was normal. Nothing ever happened like you expected it to. Like now. Right now. Sitting here when he should he walking down the stone path and placing flowers. He would remove the cellophane. That was something he hated... piles of flowers left for someone and all you could see was the reflection of a grey sky. He sighed. Pulled hands from his face and without opening his eyes, he knew that Floyd was here. Here with him. He could feel the eyes boring into him. It hurt. It made Dave's heart pound.

Slowly he lifted his head and there was Floyd seated opposite him. For a moment neither said anything. Dave could see the mess Flanders was in and Rossi felt a bit of regret that Flanders had fallen for such a simple trick. It felt wrong.

'It's fine.' Floyd gave a twitch of a smile. 'Go place the flowers and then we'll leave together. I can't go in there, but I think you were hoping that.'

'It was part of the decision, yes.' Dave stood, picking up the flowers. 'Maybe a chat and coffee? I'll be five minutes.'

'Dave...' Floyd scratched at his dirty neck. '… they won't let me live that long. It's quite a walk to the nearest coffee shop and I imagine they chose this place because it's open... as such, desolate, very... I'll be more than easy to pick off. It's fine. Go do what you're pretending to be here for. I'll wait.'

Dave sits back down again. 'I don't know...'

'Don't lie to me, Dave. Not now. Not after all this shit. It makes you a lesser man. It's what I would expect from Hotchner, not you. Just don't lie to me. I'll not lie to you. I'll wait. I'll wait here. I believe the snipers are going to get me when I'm in the parking lot, so I'll wait. Hurry though. Times wasting and if you want questions answered you must be quick.'

Again Dave stands. 'Is there anything...' He puts a hand out to Floyd who seems to know what Rossi is asking. 'I've nothing, Dave. Nothing he'd want. Nothing I want to give him.'

So Dave walks off down the stone path to the little marker set in the grass. There are no other flowers here, but that was to be expected. The grieving and wailing and gnashing of teeth is all done at the other place. The place they originally assumed, wrongly, that Floyd would visit. They constantly under-estimate him and Dave thought that it was going to happen again. Sure that Floyd would be long gone by the time he returned to the lych gate. Sure that they'd never do what they'd plotted and planned to do. He pulled off the cellophane and scrunched it up, put it in his pocket and silently, because there were no words he could think of that were worth saying, placed the flowers, stood up, looked again at the marker and slowly, almost with reluctance, walked through the lonely old graveyard back to the gate.

Floyd was waiting. Smoking a cheroot, picking at the skin around his fingernails. Nervous? Rossi thought maybe Floyd was. He sat down and gave Floyd a nod.

'So... you said you'd not lie to me. What happened to Sam? What happened in that house?'

'Monsters.' Floyd muttered through the cheroot. Yellow smoke swam around his face. 'They took Sam. It was his fault. He tapped into demonic things, Dave. He wanted power so much! He thought it would bring someone to him. Someone to love him as he thought he deserved, yet all Sammy deserved was what he got. Finally, stupidity and greed and cowardice gets us all. He's serving his time in hell. A better punishment you'd not wish on something like him.' He pauses, removes the cheroot and drops it to the ground, rubbing it out with the toe of his boot. 'I didn't kill Reid.'

'So we've been told.'

'It's truth. I might not of stopped it happening, but it was not my hand that did that deed. But you're going to use that as an excuse. If not publicly then in your head. It will be your excuse for what's going on here. Let's get it done.'

Dave stayed seated for now. This attitude of Flanders' was bugging him. Was he meant to feel sorry for him? Because if that was the game then it wasn't working.

'This isn't for what happened at that house.' Dave speaks firmly. He's not going to be pulled in by Floyd. It's not going to work. 'It's for all the other things you've done. The rapes, murders... the abductions and foul things you think you have a right to do. You don't. You might think that you're special and outside the law, but, Floyd, you're not.'

'So...' Floyd stands. '…I'm ready when you are.' Floyd pulls the small gate open and walks out into the parking lot. Rossi stays where he is... standing with his hands in his pockets, fingers working at the cellophane... crushing it in anger and some other twisted emotion he's feeling.

A round in each knee.

That's how it starts... and Dave sees Floyd falter. Any other person would be on the ground, but not Floyd, he walks onwards, slower, but still walking.

A round hits him in the left of his upper back.

Dave sees Floyd look down. A hand comes up touches a bloody mark on his chest.

The final round takes him between the eyes.

For a moment he's still standing... it looks as though he's going to keep walking, but he doesn't. He falls forwards. Not a sound. No last cry. No last bit of defence against this outrage. Nothing.

The gravel puffs out around him.

Dave hears a cry go out in the distance. The sound of people running, but he doesn't move. Isn't even slightly convinced that the person laying in the parking lot is dead.

They took off the back of his head, but this is Flanders we're talking about.

Nothing is taken to chance. They prod him with gun barrels. Someone kicks him... then Floyd's hands are pulled behind his back, plastic ties are used. They pull off his boots, restrain his ankles and drag him away – triumphant! They downed Flanders! That's a few drinks tonight.

And how easy was that in the end?

How fucking easy! Five rounds and he's dead.

Except, did he just take a breath?


	9. POSSESSTION

Chapter Nine.

**POSSESSTION:** _Actual holding or occupancy, either with or without rights of ownership._

They sit facing each other on the grass. Both have legs crossed. Both have hate-filled expressions on their faces.

The rage Floyd is feeling, is mirrored by the fury Spencer is directing back at him.

'Release me, you bastard.' Floyd hisses... pulling at the grass, wanting to throw it at the creature who had suddenly become his nemesis. The green dampness colours his fingers like bright paint, but everything here is brighter and cleaner and it's meant to be relaxing and calm, but not now. Not now _he_ is playing these games.

'No.' Spencer replies. 'It's my turn. My turn to be in control.'

'You? What the fuck makes you think you have any control over me?' Floyd stands up, kicks in irritation at the grass, looks over at The Old Woman who is standing watching, arms crossed and he sits back down again.

'The fact that I'm here. You're here. You're alive. I'm not. That – that makes me think that I'm in control.'

'Who the fuck do you think you are!' Floyd shouts at him.

Spencer flinches from the flying spittle. Flinches from the words. It's deeply ingrained. As deep as the filth on Floyd's waistcoat, but he's not going to give in. Not now. Not ever.

'Since I was a child you pursued me. I had no chance. I didn't have the strength, the mental and emotional strength to stop you. I allowed it because...'

'Because you loved it. Because I protected you.' Floyd snaps back.

'I allowed it because I knew no different. I didn't have a normal upbringing. My life was a mess from the moment I was born and you knew that and you tapped into my weakness – when I was a child. When I couldn't fight back. Now it's my turn. You should have killed me when you had the chance. You should have completed what you started, but you... you're the weak one now, crippled... unable to defend yourself and you have taught me many lessons.'

Floyd curled his lip at Spencer who was looking, even through the snarl on his face, young and beautiful... carefree and wondrous... the Spencer he'd pulled apart years ago.

'You're dead.' Floyd confirmed. 'That bitch did it.'

'That bitch did it.' Spencer repeated. 'Not you. You should have done it. You should have taken my heart, Floyd. You made a very big mistake when you left me there. Now... now it's my turn. And I don't think there's very much you can do about it.'

Floyd stood again. Really he wanted to kill Spencer all over again. Do it properly this time. Tear into him and eat his heart as it was still beating. He could almost taste the blood. Yet he was here. On the Great Grass with The Old Woman and there would be no kills today, not here. Not even Floyd could go against that. The Old Woman would flatten him before he'd raised his hand.

'I'm not afraid of you, Reid. You might be up here in my head, but you're just a ghost, a voice... you think I've not had voices up there before? You think I can't block them? Then that's a mistake you're about to discover.'

'But... you forget...' Spencer stands, '… how well I know you. You saw to that yourself. You forced me to know every speck of your mind and body. There's nothing about you I cannot predict. Nothing. I'll be there in your dreams, nightmares... and when you finally awaken from the crippled state you're in now, _when_ I permit that, I will haunt every waking moment. There's nothing you can do to stop me. Nothing.'

Floyd turned a small circle. Looked at The Old Woman – maybe she had a way out of this crap, but she just shrugged her shoulders and shook her head slowly. Even her? Even the only person he could ever go to and know she'd hold nothing against him? Had she finally turned her back?

'I loved you.' Floyd tried pity... tried guilt. 'And it wasn't me that... I wasn't holding the blade. Why take your vengeance out on me. Pick on Levin. Go haunt the whore. He's the one you need to be pissed off with, not me. All I've ever done is protect you. Keep you safe. How many times have I brought you back, Babes? How many times have I been there for you?'

'Not as many times as you've beaten me, abused me, forced me to be complicit in your games. Do you want me to name every event? I can! I can do that. It's all here.' Spencer touches his temple. 'Every punch and slap. Every boot. Every time you've...'

'And the good stuff?' Floyd put a pleading hand out to Spencer. 'Remember the fun times too? The times you cried in pleasure.'

'They say pleasure and pain are connected. I don't believe that I could tell the difference. You muddled my brain, damaged me to the point where I was so numb with horror, disgust and fear that anything, even a slap, a bite, your foul way of making love... anything I could actually feel made me glad I was still alive... look!' He now held out his arms for Floyd to see.

The rough stitches which had been done in the trailer stood out red, lumpy and infected... cigarette burns, scars from the many times he'd cut his wrists... it was all there like one of the graphic novels they used to read together. Every mark stood out telling a story.

'Well that's you. I didn't do that to you.'

'Maybe it was my hand that did most of this, but why do you think I did it, Floyd? Why did I want to be dead, so desperately sick inside that I'd rather have been dead than have to face you one more time. Why is that if you were loving, caring and protective? Answer me?'

'You're like your mother. Not right in the head.' Floyd turned away from Spencer and walked slowly towards the small river running over large pebbles. He looked up at the trees the other side. The Great Forest. He thought, he really thought that the Feds would have done a proper job. He should have known better. They should have decapitated him. Torn him apart. Burnt his remains over an open fire. They should have done it right and he would have been free to cross.

But no... now he has to keep on going with Spencer in his head, refusing to let go... clawing at the inside of his brain. Possessing him... and not allowing him to heal properly.

'You cunt.' Floyd says between gritted teeth. 'You selfish, vengeful and unreasonable shit. Most of that damage was done because you were afraid I'd not return! You wanted me back. You needed me in your life. I don't care what you _think_ the reasons are. Like you say you know me, well, I know you too. Fuck this shit.'

He turned to The Old Woman. Took two steps towards her. 'Stop him. Send him over. Make him cross.'

'I cannot do that. I'm not here to force anyone. It's free will, Floyd. Isn't that what got you here in the first place? Your need to do what you want? Well that rule applies to Spencer too. He will cross eventually, I'm sure, but only when he's ready to do so. I'm here to guide, not to bully.'

'You're a fucking god! Of course you can make him!'

'Of course it's within my power to make him. It's also within my power to stop him. Think on that, Floyd. And remember there are always options. If you don't like it here, I can transfer you, but I'm very certain that you will not like where I would send you. So sit and discuss this like a man or leave by the way you came. Free will, Floyd. And there is Sam to consider. Have you thought about him in all of this? What are you going to do about him?'

Floyd shakes his head. 'Nothing. Fuck him.'

The grass was gone. Not that Floyd could see it. He could see nothing. Just a strange flickering darkness. He could hear the bleeping of machinery. The smell of a hospital. A terrible itch in his head, but nothing else. He couldn't move. But he was breathing. There was no tube helping him. His heart was beating... he was alive... and a terrifically itchy life it seemed to be so far. Faintly he could smell the grass. He could smell the lavender of The Old Woman. He could smell that odd honey smell that floated around Spencer, but mostly it was hospital... disinfectant and hospital food. That's what he could smell.

Someone was touching him. Running fingers down his legs. Pricking his skin with something... Pushing at his feet.

An eyelid was opened and a light shone in. He wanted to blink it away or break the hand of the person holding it, but was immobile...

'He has brain activity.' Someone spoke. A male. It sounded as though his voice was muffled by a face mask or a really large moustache.

'That means nothing. It's a miracle he's still breathing. We don't expect him to wake up. If he does, the damage to the brain is so extensive that... well, it will be best if he never awakens.' A different voice. Younger... still muffled. Probably not a moustache then.

'Yet there is regeneration of the brain cells.'

'Yes.'

'Which could, if he wakes and if he can react to anything, give the medical world some hope.' the older voice says. 'You've read the files?'

'Obviously. Yes, I've read the files.'

A whooshing sound, perhaps a door... and then silence. At least for a short while there is silence. But just as Floyd is thinking about taking himself back to The Great Grass... a voice speaks. It's very clear. Not muffled like the others.

'So you see.' It's Spencer. 'I can keep you here for as long as I want. I can talk to you and read to you and keep you content. I _hope_ you're content. This is what you wanted isn't it? You did know that they were going to shoot you, so I can only assume that you wanted this. Well... again you get what you want. Have you heard the news about The Red Sox? I know you're not really a sports fan and you've not permitted me to be one either, but I think it's time we changed things around.'

It was insufferable! Spencer was there, talking directly into his head for the next five hours. Floyd could neither sleep or fully awaken. He couldn't drift off somewhere, because Spencer was keeping him here, nailing him to the mattress which he was strapped down to. There were so many questions! So much!

SHUT UP! But the scream was in his head.

He had NO interest in TV shows and who was doing what to whom and when or why! He didn't need to know what size breasts someone had or what colour shirt someone else was wearing. He didn't want to know how to cook chocolate cake or what the best things were for hair removal...

'There is one thing you did for me.' Spencer suddenly stops his one sided conversation and moves onto something more personal. 'You bought me something when in that disgusting trailer. Those socks and sweater. That, I promise you, is the most beautiful thing you ever did for me. Now base that on what other people have in relationships and you will see that it really wasn't very much.' A pause, almost as though he's waiting for an answer, but there isn't one. 'And I should tell you something else... you know... whilst you can't bitch back at me and argue with me about it. I'm not gay. I like women. I've just never been able to. You've always been there convincing me otherwise, but no... I definitely like boobs.'

Then silence again... except for the beeping of the machines.

'LIAR!' Floyd ran across the grass towards Spencer who was standing at the river edge tossing pebbles into the clear water. 'You fucking liar!' His hands were out ready to shove... push the freak into the water and then drown him... kill the arsehole.

But suddenly Spencer was behind him, face looking puzzled. 'What have I lied about?'

'Breasts!' Floyd howled at him as he spun to face him. 'Never – not once! Never have you or would you... never!'

Spencer gave a small shrug. 'Possibly not, but you never gave me the option did you? You just thought your lovely self would be what I wanted. Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn't.'

'Then why not pounce on JJ... why not get into Prentiss' pants! Why Hotchner? See! You can't answer can you? Fucking hell Spencer, do you think, really think it's possible to turn on a switch in someone's head and make them what they're not? Honestly! You're more intelligent than that. Actually you're more intelligent than this shit! Release me. Let me go... Become something else, Spencer. Be reborn, or just waft around somewhere and be happy.'

'I am far more vengeful than I am intelligent. And that should worry you. I hope it does. As my need to hurt you is so great, I'm putting aside my own comforts. I'm used to that. I'm perfectly happy with this situation. Comfort has never been a thing which I think of when you're involved.'

'Right. Now, Babes... try to think back to the good times. Remember how much you love to hold me when you're on the back of the bike. Remember how good it is to lie together in a warm bed, limbs tangled around each other.' Floyd slowly walks towards Spencer, his hands open at his side. Using a soft and un-threatening voice. 'Can't you remember the fun we've had? The times we've just been the pair of us... doing stuff?'

Spencer opened his mouth, licked his lips and nodded. 'There were some good times.' He agreed. 'But they're so over shadowed by the bad. Can't you understand that? How many years was it before you even uttered that word _love_ and then went to deny it afterwards – cancelled it all out by the filth and reprehensible acts you performed, not only on me, but others. The times I covered for you and washed blood off your clothing. The times I lied for you. Too many times I stood there with a split lip and black eye and swore to Hotch that I'd fallen. Swore that it wasn't you beating me.'

'Well you had a gun. You should have stopped me. You're not unable to defend yourself.'

Spencer shakes his head. 'Isn't what we see here proof that shooting you, even shooting you in the head does nothing? It just slows you down for a while. We both knew that already. You knew that when you were with Rossi at the grave... you knew that they'd hurt you, but not have it in them to take your head and remove your heart. Why would they do that?'

'Indeed. Why would they?' Floyd looked around for The Old Woman. Maybe he could talk some sense into her. 'But whilst we are here and whilst we are able to communicate and speak... can we not attempt to let it go. Try to regain something which was lost?'

'No.'

Spencer kept saying that to him and it was beginning to annoy. 'We can sit and talk. Talk it through. See how it goes.' He turns back to look at Spencer. 'I do love you. I've always loved you. I adore every bone in your body... can't you understand that? It's why I couldn't do the job properly. I couldn't bring myself to mutilate you. I couldn't do it, Babes.'

'That just shows what a spineless coward you are.' Spencer replied, but did Floyd detect less venom there? He thought he did. Good... now carry on. Win him over. Force him out.

'It wasn't that, Babes... for the gods no. It would have been like destroying a brilliant piece of artwork... no... no not that... it's not... it's...'

'Spit it out Flanders.' Spencer smirked at the stuttering Floyd. 'Come on, now. Tell me why? You can do it. Just concentrate and think before you speak. It's easy. If a fool like me can talk, surely you can.'

'Spence... I'm sorry, right? I'm fucking sorry!' He moves closer... not close enough to touch, but this time Spencer doesn't move back. 'You are an addiction. Everything about you. Not just how you look, walk, talk, laugh... cry and scream. It's the way you think and what you know and how you are. Everything about you was perfection and it got under my skin and no matter how hard I tried I could never bring myself to do what was asked of me. Do you think I wanted this?'

'Yes. I do think you wanted this. You love to crush bugs under your feet. You like the feeling that someone is completely compliant to your needs. There is only one thing you ever said you would do for me and actually did, without failure you did it... you promised never to carry a gun.'

'Exactly! And I kept that damned promise. I remember last time I was shot in the head. Without delay, as soon as I could stand I was trying to find you. Working alongside fucking Hotchner searching for you. For my life Babes! Why did I do that! If I wanted you dead I could have left you there. I could have walked away then! But no! Fuck no! I came after you. Found you... risked my life with only half a brain and a hole in my skull... brain matter still drying on my jeans but I searched and that was desperation, Spence because I needed you! It wasn't spite. It wasn't greed...'

'And it wasn't love either.' Spencer sighed. 'It doesn't matter what you say. I'll not change my mind. I'm not going to leave. I'm going to torment you until you somehow, and I'm not sure how, manage to decapitate yourself. I want to be there to see that.'

It was hopeless. Spencer was being a right bitch! He deserved what he'd got. He never appreciated anything. He was always moaning and bleeding and whining and bruised. He could never just accept that this was his life and get on with it.

'I ask one thing.' Floyd muttered.

'One.' Spencer nodded. 'It doesn't mean I will answer or agree.'

'Understood. Come with me and look. Look at what is the other side of the river. Please. I'm asking you to do this and maybe you'll understand.' He gestured to the river bank... it was low here where thousands, maybe millions of people had walked across to the other side. The water was shallow, bright, clean. 'It is something which has been my goal for as long as I can remember, just to cross this damned river. It's ankle deep... so shallow that I'd not even get my feet wet. What do you suppose is stopping me?'

Spencer shook his head. 'I have no idea. Is that it?Is that your one thing, or is your one thing going to turn in to a sob story about your fear of crossing? Your fear of being trapped there and regretting that you'd not be able to come back to slap me one more time... Oh how that must rankle with you, Floyd... all you've ever wanted within your dirty grasp... The Great Forest... oh such beauty! But what you'd really rather be doing is tying me to a radiator or smacking me with the back of your hand, this is just an excuse to do what you've been doing... You Floyd... are a master at procrastination. You could go on record... an eternity of wasting time and making excuses. You don't want to cross over, because when you do you'll be at the mercy of those who keep order and your games would have to stop. They'd throw you out. They'd not have you back... But I can see by the expression on your face that you know that already, so that's not it is it? It's the humiliation of being told, when you reach the far bank, that you are not allowed in. Would they say that to you? Are you willing to take that risk; come now, we could cross together.'

'Screw you, Babes. You'd never understand. You'd never get it.'

'Well I'm rather pleased about that because understanding the reasons you do what you do will make me as bad as you.'

'Cross.' Floyd tells Spencer. 'Go... cross over and be happy forever. Have all you've ever wanted. Everything you've dreamed about. All of it is there waiting for you.'

But Spencer shook his head. 'No it's not. Everything I've dreamed of is standing right here... that, Floyd... is the problem.'

It was now Floyd's turn to not have a bloody clue what was going on. He walked closer to Spencer, just to see what would happen and this time he didn't move away. Spencer stood there looking at Floyd as though he was expecting the punch on the mouth which Floyd had initially planned when trying to get close enough to do something, but Floyd held his hand out in supplication. 'Here? Where here?' Floyd looked over Spencer's shoulder, expecting some new bitch to be waiting, but for now it was just the two of them. Even The Old Woman had taken herself away for a moment. 'There's nothing here but the pair of us, and you've made it quite clear that you intend to haunt me until I kill myself, properly this time... because of your deep hatred... yes? Or did I misunderstand that? You've every damned right to hate me! I can keep going on about the good times and hell, Spence, there were plenty of nights we sat reading to each other... just being us... you know what I mean? Those special times... we did that a lot, but yeah, I know what you mean and you've every right to not like being smacked around but, sweetness... Spence, Babes... my life and my light! You loved it! The first time I wrapped my hands around your throat... I remember the look on your face, abject terror and every reason for it, but... the time after that and the time after that? No... it was more auto erotica... you got off on it.' He paused waiting for Spencer to say that was wrong, but there was only the sound of their breathing. 'The problem is that the more you do something the more you come to expect it... the less it feels.'

'You...' Spencer whispered. 'You made me so numb inside – so empty – that the pain was all there was left.'

Floyd suddenly sat down on the grass. He waited for Spencer to join him and gave him a very quick smile. 'If I made you so numb, if you truly didn't like what I did... why are you still here? Why not cross? You don't want me, Spencer. Not after what you've accused me of. Some I admit was true and some I'll deny and some I'll say it's what you wanted...'

'I wanted to be left to die in that trailer? Honestly? That's what you're trying to convince me of? I can't think of one reason you might think that, so elucidate for me. Tell me what part of that experience was for me and not for you? And where were you all that time? With that _bitch_ who slit my throat?'

Floyd nodded and sighed. 'Well, actually yes... I was with the bitch, but not in the way you think. I took him to the house. Showed him around. If you'd actually had the balls to do it, you'd have found him living quite happily in the kitchens and the old servants rooms. I employed him. Paid him well but I only fucked him that once, back at the motel... and you would have too had you thought of it first... you have to admit he was pretty.'

'I don't have to screw everything I think is nice looking.'

Floyd licked his lips. 'Oh... I do.'

'Stop looking at me like that.' Spencer sounded almost amused though. The anger was parting, drifting away. Floyd knew he'd not be able to keep up this spiteful attitude. He'd ground him down too well for that. This latest outburst was just because he was pissed off that Floyd had let someone kill him. That was understandable, he guessed... but how long can someone stay angry for? What he didn't quite fathom was why Spencer said all he wanted was here and then bitch and whine about how much he loathed him. The boy was confused. Floyd just had to set things right again.

'So – you want me to beg you?'

'No.' Spencer was still smiling. 'I think that would possibly make me puke a little. What I want is for everything to have been a nightmare, to wake up and be free.'

'Without me.' A churlish expression entered Floyd's voice. He'd have to stop that or he'd lose all hope of winning over Spence, his love... his sweetheart... his royal pain in the arse.

'With you!' Spencer cried out. 'My god Floyd.' Were there tears in his eyes? Oh Floyd hoped very much so. This maybe was going better than he thought it was.

'You can have so much better.' Floyd shuffled closer. Reached out and actually took one of Spencer's hands, moved closer still and Spencer didn't move; just sat looking at Floyd's hand holding his own. Floyd lifted the hand and kissed the fingers, gently, lovingly. 'Cross over and you'll have eternal peace. Eternal happiness. You have no idea what you're doing to yourself by not crossing. You will become corrupt, a shadow. You'll stop being who you really are, Spence. You need to cross before you are just another vengeful and restless spirit.'

Spencer's fingers wrapped around Floyd's. He blinked, licked his lips, sighed. 'But... it's a drug, Floyd. As you said, the more you get the less you feel. The more you have to have something stronger and harder and... and you provided that in abundance. You really, truly think I will have peace if I cross over there?' He waved a hand at the trees on the other bank. 'With you past loves there, who wait and wait and wait for you to come to them... they're not happy. Anthony, Little River who mourn their loss, not the loss of their lives but the loss of you! You want me to be like that, wandering, crying... forever lost... that one thing which is life itself not being there? Floyd, I cannot cross. I can't do it. All I have left is living in your mind. A dream... a terrible dream or nightmare which I can play over and over again... If I cross... I would have lost you too.'

Floyd wiggled around so he was sitting next to Spencer, put an arm around him, pulled him close. Such sweet words. Absolute bullshit, of course, but sweet in their own way.

'Listen to me, Babes. Those you mentioned, they're not over there. They can't be. You've only got the chance to be there because I cheated on the job. That's a small luxury I have afforded you. You are able to cross. I finished those others properly. They're not there. They can't be and whoever told you they were was lying to you.' A kiss on the ear and Spencer didn't go so far as to sigh in happiness and delight, but nor did he pull away.

'I've seen them. They stand there when it's dark and cry and howl for what they've lost and they beg for you to come to them.' Spencer whispered.

It was a lie. Spencer was imagining it. Floyd knew that couldn't be right. Couldn't possibly be correct. If that was true then all of the souls he'd collected would be over there seeking vengeance on a messy death... and that is not how it works. Floyd knew.

At least he thought he knew.

He moved again. Quickly, before Spencer could get out of the way or defend. It was an easy manoeuvre, he'd done it so many times. He pushed Spencer on to his back and was straddling him, sitting across his hips and looking down at that sweet and almost innocent face.

'Now you listen to me, sweet thing... This has gone on far too long. We've played too many games and made too many mistakes. However, this now... this...' Floyd pointed at Spencer, '...this is what it has been about. I'm not now going to sit here and hear you say that you refuse to cross. You will damned well cross and you'll do it today. Once there you'll forget all about me. I'll be gone from your head...'

'And me from yours.' Spencer reminded him.

'Well yes, for sure you from mine and that will cause unimaginable pain and anguish to me, but knowing that you're happy will alleviate some of that. I'll cope. Eventually. It will not be easy but I will cope. I will never be able to forget you, Babes... never. You are part of me was much as Sam is. You're mine... But I need to know that you are safe and well and content... without pain and suffering... and without... Babes, why the deep frown? Don't you believe me?'

'Not a word.' But there was still a slight upward twitch of the mouth. Not quite, but almost a smile. 'I don't know if you've ever told me the truth though, so having it said to me now would be quite uncomfortable – awkward. I don't know quite how I would react the you feeling something for me other than, oh I don't know... how _would_ you describe what I was to you, Floyd? A dog? No... that was Sam's lucky job, to be your dog. What was I? Just something to take your temper out on? Something to hammer at and see bleed and know it would come crawling back to you? A punch bag? Anything else? Was there ever anything else other than that?'

Floyd wriggled slightly and Spencer's frown deepened. He reached forwards and ran a finger over Spencer's delightful sweater-vest. 'How can we be bound so tightly and yet understand so little about each other? How the fuck did that happen? I thought we knew all there was?'

'It's all moot, Floyd. I'm not crossing without you. End of discussion... and what you are doing...' Spencer's voice drifted and the frown disappeared for a moment. 'I'm not a whore and whatever it is you want from me right now, I'm not going to give it to you. Not here.'

'You are a whore.' Floyd replied. 'You've at least paid for a fuck more than once, so fine... I take that back, you're not a whore, but you sure as hell is hot, a slut of a very large degree. A super-slut... a boy cunt of exceptional quality. And I suspect you've taken money in the past... Actually I know that you've rented yourself out, so don't come on all coy to me... big-boy.'

Spencer actually snorted out a laugh, grabbed Floyd by the hand and moved it away from him. 'I'm not going to let you do that to me here. Is that understood? If I scream I think someone might come running and I don't think she's too happy with you right now. Floyd... stop it... and tell me if you know how to put things right. Do you know what to do?'

He actually did what Spencer required. He moved away... just ran a hand gently over him to make sure that the wriggling had produced what he'd expected and wanted. Nothing quite so sweet as a randy Spencer.

'I need to die. Properly die. Completely and irrevocably die and that's a very hard thing for me to volunteer to do, as you might well respect and expect. This body I use has an animalistic sense of survival. I'm not going to be able to just sit there and let someone chop my head off, Spencer, and that's really the only thing that will stop me as you know. What sane man would do that?'

'You're not sane.'

'OK... you have me on that one, but still I don't fancy laying my neck on the railway track... it's not going to happen... besides, I'm locked up and strapped down and you won't allow me to wake up... so I will just lay there for an eternity with you telling me all the latest baseball news and who has married who and why so and so won whatever and who this is and what that is... and it will be the most hideous thing... you know that... you know. You don't want that. I don't want you to do that, as I said, I need you to cross over and be at peace.'

'And as I said, I'm not going without you. And you need to start considering Sam.'

'Sam? What the fuck for? He was just a... dog... a thing to masturbate into occasionally – he was never meant to be a long term thing and he's gone. I can't retrieve him, Spence... he's in hell. He'll remain there. It's where he belongs... You can't mean me to go there and get him...'

'Can't I? I thought you loved me. I thought you wanted me. I thought you... I thought you would do that for me... I will release you... do that. Get Sam... die... and then I'll let you go.'

Well he's not asking for much is he?

A journey into hell... and decapitation.

'Fuck.' Floyd laid back on the grass and stared at the sky. 'You really are a bitch.'

Leaning on his elbows, Spencer watches Floyd closely. 'I had a good master. Floyd, I'm going to let you awaken and you need to use that time talking to someone and arranging things your end. I can't do that for you, I can't make you do it... but... unless you want me raging inside of your head forever, that's what you will have to do. And then we will discuss the matter of Sam. I never liked him. I felt a dreadful sorrow for him. That doesn't mean I can let you abandon him.'

'Fuckalmighty! OK! I heard you! I get it! You don't need to fucking nag me like an old crone. I know what needs to be done to me, I don't have a fucking idea how to get Sam back! You're dead and I'm about to be... And I don't think there's too much left of Sam either. Two dead blokes go to hell to rescue a dead kid so they can sit in a triangle of bitching in The Great Forest. I honestly can't see what part Sam has to play in this. He's nothing! He's just a fucking dog, Spencer. He meant nothing to me and you didn't like him so why bother to risk damnation to collect him from where he thinks of as home? What's the fucking point in that? He can't cross here anyway. He's demonic. He's not what he appears to be. He's a fucking demony thing.'

'A demony thing? What exactly is Sam? There must be a way. I know there is. I know you! I know you'd not have created something you couldn't have control over, absolute eternal control and if you cannot take him over the river... well that's not absolute and eternal control is it? So I think you're not telling the whole truth. Floyd, we're wasting time... you know time here passes differently from down there. You need to go and sort things out. I'll leave. Allow you to wake and then...'

'Don't order me about Spence. Just don't. We've both had a shit time recently so I'm letting you off this once or twice... but it's not going to be something I'm going to poke up with for much longer, so shut the fuck up and clear off. Let me work out how to get this finished.'

Spencer got to his feet and brushed down his sweater-vest with his hand. There didn't seem much point in saying more, but Spencer still did something which surprised Floyd and made him feel more than a little bit smug about the situation. As Floyd got to his feet, Spencer leaned in and gave him a long and tongue sucking kiss. Then he was gone. So much gone that Floyd wondered if he'd even been there...

He could hear the beeping of machinery again, though... even here on the grass he could hear it. Had it all been a dream? Had he imagined the whole thing? As the beeping sounds slowly faded, Floyd walked off, eyes shut, ready for the next stage of this journey... though there was now a horrible nagging feeling that none of it had really happened.

Odd things go on in a person's head when they're dying... or un-dying as Floyd had been attempting to do.


	10. FLAME

Chapter Ten.

**FLAME:** _Intense passion or ardour; burning emotion._

Flanders didn't wake up screaming and thrashing about. He just opened his eyes and waited for someone to realise that he was no longer sleeping.

It was wonderful to have his own head back... a reasonably empty head. No voices nattering at him. Nothing telling him what a bastard he was or giving him detailed information on female anatomy. He looked up at the white ceiling, blinked at the strip lighting... moved his head slowly, his brain sloshing around inside his shattered skull. It was more than slightly painful, but Floyd wasn't going to give them the pleasure of seeing that. He mentally bit back on it and waited... waited... waited for someone to notice movement.

When a whole minute dragged on and no one had come running in hitting him with a cattle prod, he decided it was time to let them know he was already bored laying here.

'Hey!' He called out into the silence. Not even the beeps from a machine. Nothing. He pulled on the restraints but they had him secured pretty well. He could have ripped himself out, but he didn't think that he had enough going on in his skull to tell his limbs what to do if he managed and rolling and flopping around on the floor like a beached whale wasn't the way to go.

'HEY!' Louder this time. He coughed... spat something out and made the bed rattle slightly and finally that sound of a door opening and light footsteps.

'Dear god.' A squeak of a voice. Terror? Strapped down with half a brain and he still managed to terrorize people. That was kind of wonderful.

'Water.' Floyd licked his lips.

'Dear god.' That voice again and the door closed and the person was gone. Well that was a nice way to be greeted back into the land of the living! At least the bloke recognised him... maybe not quite as a god, but getting there. Slowly. Very slowly. Perhaps by the time of the next Big Bang he'd at least have his damned wings back again! That put a bit of a smirk on his dry lips.

He wiggled his fingers. Curled his toes... sniffed and clenched his fists. This was getting fucking ridiculous! Where the hell was everyone? And on that thought the doors opened again and someone else repeated the two words the other man had spoken, but this person came closer, looked closer... stood so Floyd could see him. Middle aged, greying at the temples... receding, clean shaven, but deep lines of an over worked and stressed person marked a pale face, slightly pock marked.

'Can you hear me?' He leaned in closer.

'I need water. Thirsty as a Sahara whore. Yes I can hear you.'

'Can you see me?'

'Yes I can fucking well see you. I can smell you too... water... then I need you to make a phone call for me. Hurry. Time is short.'

'Dear god.' He jumped back out of the way. 'This is impossible. This is...'

'A miracle... I know... I know... now the water and the phone... now?'

It was the following day when David Rossi walked into the room. By then Floyd had persuaded everyone who mattered that he was completely harmless and strapping down a cripple was pointless to some very high degree. He still couldn't make his legs do what he wanted them to do – basically run, like a rhinoceros was trying to fuck him with it's horn... run, run, run and never look back. Hide in a cave somewhere, eating rats and sucking on the moss and waiting until the end of times... But, for now there would be no running... stupid legs.

There was some alarm on Rossi's face when he saw the lack of restraints... not even a single bit of plastic tie or a handcuff of any description to keep Flanders on that bed.

So Dave paused at the door, looking to Floyd as though he had on his best swag; jeans, shirt open at the neck to display a few curls of greying chest hair, and a smart jacket. He looked, as usual, a complete arsehole... (had he dyed his hair?) but Floyd forgave Dave, for now at least, because in Rossi's case, dress sense and Floyd's ability to manipulate him didn't match. At least looking at the old geezer Floyd thought this was the one who would do what he requested.

'Nice to see you looking so...' Rossi paused as he pulled a black plastic chair closer to the bed. Not too close... not terribly close at all, but closer than being out in the corridor on the other side of a security door.

'…Alive.' Floyd finished for Dave who was running a finger on the knee of his jeans.

'Alive is suitable, but I was going to say _well_.'

'I see. I do! I do see. I understand your reluctance to get to close to me, but I'm a shell of what I was and I'm not well and I'm not really, very much... not _absolutely_ alive either. I do therefore need you to do something – some_things_ – for me. I've let them prod and probe me enough now. It's time I got going.'

Rossi jumped back to his feet. Floyd was actually shocked to see that someone so old and fake and weathered looking could move so fast. He raised a lazy eyebrow at Dave and told him to settle back down again. He didn't mean that he was leaving now, or ever... it was something else entirely that he meant. Dave sat back down again, tugging on the thigh of his jeans so the crotch didn't feel uncomfortable on his old man balls – at least that's what Floyd assumed he was doing it for. There was a twinkle of pleasure to know that he'd never have to age and become some old fart... nor would Spencer. They'd both been let off that completely. How wonderful.

'I'm dying.' Floyd then said. He was determined not to use bad language. He had in mind to show Rossi what an intelligence they would be losing here. 'I've been in discussion with Spence – Spencer, with Reid and we have come to the conclusion that my death is the only way forward from this point.'

Dave blinked, rubbed at his temples and sighed. 'Spencer?'

'For sure, yes, Spencer. We sat and talked and though he is violently pissed off with me for what happened, there is a margin of forgiveness available, but this depends on much of what happens next. I will not permit him to possess me. I will not allow that and if that meant escaping from here and walking in front of a train then I would do that. I'll not be used in that way – but it's no matter, because I'm going to stop my heart and I will die. I need your word on something first.'

'Floyd.' Dave looked very uncomfortable. 'Spencer is dead.' It looked as though he was waiting for shock to register on Floyd's face, but there was none. There was a small nod of the head.

'Well of course he is. Levin slit his throat. Why are you telling me he's dead? We've had this discussion, remember? At the grave-yard, in the lych gate... you'd hardly be going to visit his grave if he wasn't dead. You think I'm a fool? You think that having part of my brain expelled and left to dry on the gravel makes me a fool?'

'Then tell me how you are talking to him?' Dave looks puzzled... or is he just doing an old man face, Floyd can't tell. He's almost wishing he'd asked for JJ to come see him. At least she was so full of botox that facial expressions didn't come in to play.

Dave leaned forwards very slightly. Floyd could see the marks in his hair where the comb had been scraped through it. It was for a moment beautiful. It reminded him of wind blowing through a field of grass, cutting partings and magical pathways which then disappeared as soon as they showed. He would have liked to have run a finger along those marks on Rossi's head and felt for the grooves, dips and bumps which made up the surface of the scalp. It was fascinating, so much so that Rossi was speaking and Floyd couldn't get his mind to concentrate. Couldn't pull his thoughts away from Flowery Meads on a warm summer day.

'Floyd?' The scrape of the chair and the movement of the head he'd been concentrating so hard on, broke the illusion and it was just Dave's head again. Floyd didn't speak but looked at Dave trying to figure out if there was any point in carrying on this chat about dead people. 'Floyd, you are unwell. There seems no point – in talking to you today, so I'll come – back another day.' Dave had an odd habit of splitting his sentences up in slightly the wrong places. Floyd had noted this before but it seemed very pronounced just now.

'No!' Floyd went to sit, went to leap off the bed and break the bastard's arms, but all he did was slide slightly to one side. 'No... Dave you have to do something for me. I need to have it in writing what I want to happen to my body when I die.'

This has caught Dave's attention. He rubs at his stupid beard and looks down his nose at Floyd who is laying awkwardly but doesn't appear to want to move, or cannot move. At least not yet.

'I don't think that I'm the person you need to be talking to. I can arrange a lawyer to come and see you.'

'Has to be today. I might die tonight. It's that close! Can't you tell? Rossi... just write it down because it's vitally important. If I don't want to be crippled and haunted for eternity – it has to be done right. Are you ready?'

Dave stood, straightened his jacket and gave Floyd one of his sanctimonious looks. Rossi seemed good at that, but it also seemed to be a play, an act – fakery. Nothing ever felt quite as it should be around Rossi, yet Floyd didn't totally dislike him. He certainly felt no hatred towards the man. He just despaired of the man's superiority complex.

'Get paper and write it all down.' Floyd ordered him. 'Now.'

'You could just tell me.' Dave offered. 'I will see things set right for you.'

'Not good enough. It's very particular. You've seen how I keep... well... how I seem to live through anything thrown at me, to stop that... to put an end to this, it has to be done correctly. Get paper, pen and a coffee or whatever and come back and do that for me. I'll never ask anything else of you, well not much else of you. Just what's on the list. For some unknown reason, I do trust you, even though you led me to my almost death, knowingly, even though you've done that I trust you... a tiny bit... just a speck, but that speck looks like a planet next to the dust flying around my head that is what Hotchner is... Please, you want me to beg you?'

'I don't want you to beg me. I'll get what you need.' And Dave left in a whoosh of automatic security doors.

Floyd lurched back upright and stared at his legs for a while, silently willing them to start doing something, but there was still a block there. His hands were shaking like he had some kind of palsy and his body felt numb and ancient. Maybe that's all it was. Age finally catching up, but the doors opening and Dave (the hero) reappeared with a note pad and a biro. He sat, holding the pad in one hand and the pen in the other.

'Tell me what needs to be done.'

'When my heart stops and my breathing ceases I must not under any circumstances be resuscitated. I should be taken from here and to a place of cremation. I need my clothing... not this stuff, but my jeans, shirt, waistcoat, boots... my lighter in my pocket and a gold coin. They _must_ be on my person at the final moment. I need to be decapitated, the wound on the neck sealed with flame and then placed atop my shoulders. I will be cremated. After the job, which will take a considerable time – I'm quite fireproof – a bit of a bugger when you need to be cremated, but I think if my head is removed it will be easier – my ashes to be taken to Spencer's last resting place and scattered. I understand that the lighter and coin will have melted and they need – it's actually imperative, that they stay. If necessary, dig into the grass on Spencer's grave and bury them. It's important. It has to be done. If you follow all of that, then you'll never see me again.'

Rossi was staring at Floyd... he's stopped writing a moment ago when decapitation was mentioned. 'You want your head removed? Floyd...'

'You look disgusted by my request. It's not so much to ask is it? After I've been kept here as some sick sort of experiment in regeneration of the cells? Can you, or can you not see that done?'

'The appropriateness of some of this is questionable. I can certainly see that you have your lighter and a gold coin, of course. I can take your ashes and scatter them... I don't feel after all that happened that putting your remains with Reid's is the right thing to do.'

Floyd sighed. He wished to hell and back that he could get off the bed and pummel him with his fists, hard, but he let out a resigned sigh. 'Dave, it's the most right thing that could possibly ever happen. Let us be at peace together. It's all we've ever wanted or needed. It is my final request. Can you see it done? I will ask until someone agrees. If not you I'll ask Hotchner, then Morgan... so let the gods be kind to me and not have to degrade myself by going down that route. I need my things, I need my head removed and I need to be put with Spencer with my silver and gold... will you do it?'

Dave again stood. He had an arse with a spring in it. 'I'll see what can be done.' He nodded, turned and whooshed away out through the doors.

For a while now, as Floyd sat there like a bag of potatoes and wondering why the hell he couldn't get his legs to do more than nothing... not even a curl of the fucking toes now! For a while he had Spencer back there in his head... not nagging so much as – well – making small demands and putting questions to Floyd and some of those questions he had absolutely no intention of answering.

'Why did you ask Rossi?' That was the first question. It made Floyd jump. He had been whining in his head about his legs with such venom that he'd not even realised that Spencer was there.

'Because, though he stinks of cologne, it's a slightly better stink that the one Hotchner uses, and I don't think Hotchner would have considered my requests.'

A small tickle in Floyd's brain followed as he pictured Spencer settling down somewhere comfortable in his shattered and ruined skull.

'You think you can manipulate him.' Spencer then said, almost in a disappointed whisper. 'Why ask for your lighter and a gold coin? What is the need?'

'They are my things. I want them.'

Again that tickling sensation. Floyd wished the bastard would sit still!

'Why ask for your ashes to be put with me?'

Floyd sighed he looked at his floppy pale hands and then licked his lips. Would Spencer detect a lie? He had no idea. Maybe not. Spencer was new at this sort of shit after all. 'Because I wanted to be near you. I do love you, Babes. I want to know that my remains are with yours.'

Silence. No tickling... nothing. Floyd wondered if he'd gone again... but then a slight shifting let him know there was still someone bedded down in his brain.

'When it's over, what will happen? To us, I mean... I mean, what are your long term goals?'

'Fuck sake! You know! I will cross the river with you. We will live for an eternity feeling loved, fulfilled and never need anything else. It is paradise, Spencer.'

'And Sam? What about Sam? I thought we were going to get him.'

'Of course. And Sam... we'll go get Sam. That's what I meant. The three of us together forever in love and...'

'I see.' And there was a very strange _snap_... and Spencer was gone.

A great relief! Floyd didn't want it – Spencer... his love... no he didn't want that trawling through his mind for too long, getting all snug there, knowing truths. It wasn't Spencer's place to know truth. He'd learn along the way. Some things never change, can't be changed...

Hopefully.

With Rossi, things were not quite going to plan. The staff at this laboratory had wanted to cut Floyd open, take out his insides and see what made him what he is. They were not inclined to just incinerate the most unusual creature they'd ever had to study. They also absolutely point-blank refused to decapitate him. Only a sick man would make such a request. A very sick man and if he's as sick as this list of _needs_ seem to indicate then they couldn't even begin to agree with them. It was not going to happen. The man was going to be used for medical science. His parts studied under microscopes and bits grown onto mice... maybe clone him, all that normal sort of thing. It was now up to Rossi to get a court order to stop the experiments and allow the man – Floyd – to rest in peace. Even the most vile of murderers had that right – and Floyd was the most vile of murderers. It actually didn't take long to sort out. Within a few hours he had papers in his hands to say that Floyd would be cremated and his ashes scattered.

There was no mention of removing the head. There was no mention of the silver and gold. There was no mention of where the ashes would be scattered, but they were minor things and some of those Dave could sort out himself. He was pleased to be able to inform Floyd that everything was sorted. He would do what had been requested.

Dave sat on the plastic chair again and looked at the enigma sitting there seemingly helpless. He wasn't convinced that he was and so kept a slight distance between them and he certainly wasn't going to touch him.

'It's late. I have to go.' Rossi stood. 'I'll be back tomorrow.'

Floyd sort of nodded, but that blinding pain was back again and his vision had gone strangely cloudy. He had thought he'd check and double check on the details of his disposal, but couldn't be arsed to speak. It just seemed like far too much effort. He would have to trust Rossi. Floyd closed his eyes and let out a long held breath.

It was nearly over.

He would thank the gods – but the gods had very little part in this.

This was Spencer's doing.

If Reid had not been such a dick then he'd still be alive. It was Spencer's fault... his fault for being so damned interesting to be around. His fault for being beguiling and seducing him with those eyes of his... and his mouth... and those sweet suckable nipples.

As he lay there thinking of the delicious things Spencer did with his mouth and how that would be his for ever... a forever beautiful Spencer, all his... not having to share – being free, feeling that need and greed from his love... his beau, his paramour is darling and forever to be cully. It was as he thought those wondrous and delicious thoughts that he let himself go.

Firstly he stopped his breathing... closed his eyes... waited... counted to fifty-seven and then stopped his heart.

It was more of a hibernation than a death. It was no true death. Floyd could stop breathing and hold his breath whenever it took is fancy to do. It meant nothing, which was why he really did need his head to be removed. He had such an intense survival instinct that unless it was done as he requested he would, he knew, fight his way out of any flaming enclosure. It's just not simple to kill something as marvellous as he is – was – no IS and forever will be! A marvellousness which could never be repeated or copied. He was aware of how awesome he was.

Vaguely he could feel the hospital clothes being removed. He felt his legs being stuffed into his jeans... he was dressed like a child would dress a doll, that is, not very carefully and bending arms back into almost impossible positions. They stuffed his boots on his feet. Put his waistcoat back on and then lifted him and lay him on something which felt cold through the thin, worn fabric of his rolled up shirt sleeves. So far so good. All he needed now was his lighter and a coin... all he needed was for them to actually do the fucking job and remove his head.

Soon.

Very soon.

A whiff of a familiar smell.

Hotchner? What in living fuck was he doing here. He could smell him leaning over, checking, making sure he was dead.

'Good.'

Well fuck you too, Agent Aaron Hotchner... Fuck you and your dirty brat.

Floyd sort of expected the whole team to come and gloat, but no, it was just Hotchner. Well at least he'd not have to go out with their voices giggling in his head.

A hand slipped something into his waistcoat pockets. 'Lighter and a gold coin.' That was Rossi. Thank You Rossi. Thank you.

Then a sliding sensation... a bump... a small jolt and the sound of a door closing. A metal door. The smell of heat. The stink of burnt flesh. A sudden and terrible rush of an inferno... Hell was not this fucking hot! They'd not removed his head!

They peered through small observation windows. Not at first... not when they thought this was just going to be a straight forward business... but it wasn't. And they did look... with horror...

And Floyd did try to escape... he screamed, slammed his feet against the small door... howled as he exploded into flame, seeming to float around the chamber like... well like some sort of mystical demon... his fists cracked into the wall of the incinerator... his face, dripping flesh... eyes wide with accusation...

How long did it last?

It seemed to take forever... they saw Floyd gradually melt away as new skin attempted to grow over the cracked and black burnt flesh... they saw teeth which popped like popcorn in his mouth, push back out of his gums like he had a never ending supply of teeth in his head, which split open like a melon, spraying the side of the incinerator...

Half an hour passed before the screaming stopped.

Dave had puked in a waste paper bin and Hotcher had walked very quickly out of the concrete room and too the toilets where he emptied his stomach in a more controlled manner. They agreed with each other that this would never be mentioned. Never spoken of. It would haunt their nights forever, they both knew that... but at last it was done. It was over.

As all things cooled down, a nugget of silver and another of gold was handed to Rossi. He slipped them into his pocket. Other bits were collected up, large fragments put in a grinder everything swept into a clear plastic bag with a metal twist tie at the top and this was handed to Dave who looked at what he'd been given and wanted to ask for forgiveness. He wanted to beg Floyd... explain that not all he asked for could be done, but it was much too late for that now.

Somewhere was a very pissed off and hurt Floyd...

Ashes were scattered over Spencer's grave. Honestly, Rossi had had no desire to do it and would have happily flushed the waste down the toilet... then he thought of scattering him in a woodland, but in the end it was back to the graveyard and through the lych gate and kneeling at Spencer's grave he tipped out what was left of Floyd, pulled out the metal nuggets and pressed them into the ground.

'It's over. Finally we are rid of you.' Rossi said, slightly prematurely. Maybe.

Now all Floyd had to do was persuade Spencer that crossing the river, just the two of them was a far better idea than trawling their arses to hell in search of Sam... who always got in the way... no one liked him... forget him...

But first he needed to lay in the river and cool down a bit.


	11. FACE

Chapter Eleven.

**FACE:** _To oppose or to meet defiantly._

Floyd was pulling himself up the bank of the small river, still steaming beautifully from his cooling down, hands slipping in the mud forming, and cursing under his breath at the inhumane treatment he'd received, when something connected with his chin. At first he thought he'd imagined it. It wasn't such an impact that it sent him back into the water – which he shouldn't have been in in the first place, but it was enough to lift a hand and touch his chin and wave away any other thing which might have tried to send him back into the loving embrace of the waters.

After having a quick wipe of his eyes, to rid them of the water dripping in them from his hair, he sees Spencer standing there... and behold! That's not a happy look he's got on his face.

'You absolute bastard.' Floyd's lover spits at him.

Well... nice language from Spencer. Floyd thought the man should be pleased to see him only slightly singed around the edges. He blows steam out of his nose, gets to his feet and gives Spencer a long appraising look.

'Did you just try to kick me in the face?' It's a simple question which Floyd didn't think he'd ever be asking Spencer, but then he didn't think he'd heard Spencer talk to him quite that way before. Where was the love now?

'You twisted... Ah! You're unbelievable! Why?'

Now Floyd is lost, soggy and he smells of hot, wet cardboard. He really should strip off and let his things dry out, but as Spencer is being such a child, he decides that he'll wait.

'Why what? I've done what was needed. I died for you. I've always said I would... now I have. You should be happy, grateful... relieved? Something other than angry.'

'You just won't let go, will you. You conniving, manipulating bitch!'

Right... a lot of anger here and a flailing arm with a fist on the end of it, but it's easy to dodge out of the way. Spencer has never been much of a pugilist, which considering the times he's been punched, you imagine he would have learnt, but apparently not.

'Why so angry?' Floyd is smirking though... oh the joys of having more information than your enemy. Spencer really thought he could win here? Really? What a fucking moron!

'You know why! I was going to cross, I was going to leave... and now, because of the... because you have been laid with me... we are joined again! Why?'

'We can cross together.' Floyd grinned, Spencer flinched, but pulled himself up to his full height and looked down his stupid nose at Floyd.

'You have ruined everything! Everything! You son of a bitch!' A childish and ridiculous outburst there.

Floyd walked away. He wasn't going to flatten Spencer or smash his face in with a fist full of pebbles, but he was _not_ going to stand there and be spoken to in this manner. This person should have more respect. Did he not remember who the hell he was talking to?

As he marched across the grass, a few flowers wagging pinkly at him, he could hear the stomp of Spencer behind him. It seemed he was going to have to turn and face him and try to work out exactly why he was so pissed off.

'I can't see what the problem is. I thought you wanted to cross with me. I thought that was the point.' Floyd looked over Spencer's shoulder as he spoke. Looking at the angry face – his angry kitten face – would have made Floyd snort a laugh. Spencer was always so cute when he was angry. Didn't he realise yet what a turn on that was? It just made Floyd want to tickle him till he screamed for mercy... or screw him... or lick him... something along those lines.

'To cross with you? With you! NO! Never! Why would I wish to spend an eternity watching you fooling around with your great loves of the past? Why in the name of hell would I want that? No... I wanted to pass alone. I don't want you with me! I don't want this. I need... I need to be without you.'

Floyd raised an eyebrow. 'Where has sweet delicious Spence gone? Where is my darling Babes?' It was a mocking tone. A snarl. 'You'll get used to it. We can go... you'll be happy! That's what it's all about.'

'But I can only cross with you and you can only cross with Sam! You can't cross! You've cursed me to be here!'

That took the smirk off Floyd's face. Of course he could cross without Sam. What a peculiar thing to say. But looking at the angry tears falling down the side of Spencer's cute, reddening nose, Floyd had a good idea that Spencer was being serious. This wasn't a game.

'I can...' Yet Floyd didn't sound so sure now. 'What nonsense is this?'

'The sort of nonsense that happens when you create a creature from yourself. He's part of you. You can't go on without him. And now I can't go without you! Why! Why do this, after all that's happened and all I've accepted... why can't you just let me go? How long are you going to keep this up for? How long until you realise that what I see is a broken and messed up monster and not the thing you'd like me to be able to see? How long! I don't love you, Floyd. I don't even like you. I have nothing but feelings of disgust and hate... it takes a lot for me to hate someone, but you've managed it. Why would I wish to spend what is left of me, with you? Oh... and your boots are on fire. You might want to put that out before you set the place alight.'

After patting out his boots with his hands, Floyd stands for a while with his eyes closed, taking long deep breaths, breathing out little puffs of steam which make his lips tingle. An attempt to haul back the deep resentment he's feeling – a loathing for everything from not being decapitated to realising that it was Sam stopping him from crossing over and how he had the absolute pleasure of having to take Spencer with him to retrieve Sam and bring him back... then they could cross as a happy trio and never have another thing to complain and bitch about.

'You want me to what?' Spencer spluttered out to Floyd when the plan was explained.

'It's not a _want_ so much as greed... no... not greed, need... I need you to come with me to get Sam.'

'No. Absolutely no way! You want me to travel to hell for Sam? After all that you've done? I'd rather stay here and sit, wait...'

'And if something happens? If I die? That's possible. It's all different here. Die here and dead is dead forever... no coming back from it... It will be final.'

'And I should be bothered about that? I should worry that you'll die? Surely that will release me and I can cross.' Spencer seemed to be walking backwards as he spoke... quickly getting out of smacking range. 'That seems like an excellent idea! I'll wait... go... go get Sam and hopefully something will eat you and I'll never have to set my eyes on you again.'

He can't mean that! He really can't. 'I died for you! You have to be with me! You will do as I say!'

But Spencer had turned around and was making his rather bitchy way towards The Old Woman, who Floyd guessed was going to confirm the plan.

'You are my bondsman.' Floyd spat Spencer's back. 'You will do as I order you to do. You will come with me and prove your loyalty to me.'

Spencer ignored him. He didn't go quite as far as putting his fingers in his ears, but the did turn slightly so that he couldn't even glimpse Floyd out of the corner of his eye, because that's what he wanted to do. He wanted to stare at him and see that he was able to talk at Floyd's face and not hide, but not yet. Not quite yet. He was feeling that he had to yet furnish himself with a bit – a lot – more resolve before confronting Floyd in his face, up close. Close enough to smell his breath, feel the energy flying off Floyd, battering him back down again. Not ready yet... just a little more time. But already he could feel that bond was back. It was tugging at him, insisting that he turned, not to face Floyd out but to drink him in... study him and remember what it was about Floyd that he found so irresistible. It must still be there. There had to be something about the stinking and repugnant obscenity that liked to be called _Floyd_.

'Face me!'

Spencer could feel Floyd's breath on the back of his neck. It made his heart pound. He got a whiff of cloves, that beautiful smell of musk – yet behind that was also the taint of rot, and something wet, a burning dampness which reminded Spencer too much of the trailer he'd been chained to. He couldn't turn. Not now. Not yet.

'I can hear you.' Spencer spoke in a low voice. A reluctant tone.

Floyd put his hands on Spencer's shoulders; dug in his fingertips into the flesh which Floyd considered belonged to him. 'But are you listening to me?' Floyd's breath was now on the back of Spencer's ear.

'Do you understand what has been done? To both of us. Do you really understand what is going on here, Babes, because I really don't think you have a fucking clue. You have to come with me. We are bound. There is nothing you can do about it. Now, had I realised that you had intentions to cross without me then I would have had a different discussion with you earlier, but you led me to believe that you wished to be with me. That is why I insisted on what happened to my remains. It is why it had to be done like that. So that you and I could be together forever and never be parted. I never had any thought of going to hell to rescue Sam. Had that been on the agenda then things would have been done differently so that I could have gone alone, you could have crossed alone. We could have met up later.'

Spencer moved slightly, trying to get the hands to leave his shoulders. They were burning him. He could smell the scorching of the sweater-vest... could feel the heat of the hands.

'You're hurting me.' Spencer again moved... a couple of steps forwards, towards The Old Woman who was standing talking to a young girl with long brown hair.

'Why didn't you tell me!'

That made Spencer flinch again. The voice howling in his ear.

'Why should I tell you? What business of yours was it? You let someone kill me and left me laying in that hideous room... left me there and walked off. You didn't even have the courage to stay with me. I felt you touch – my – face.' Those words came out in a hitch... Dear god was he going to cry about that?

'I've left you in far worse places. I let them know where you were. Babes... come now. This is insane. I – I love... yeah... that's right... I love you and I know you love me, so why are we talking about things that don't matter? You should have told me your plans. You should have told me about Sam... did you know about Sam? Did you know why I couldn't cross?'

Now Spencer did turn, tearing Floyd's hands away from him and snagging a bit of the hand-knitted loveliness he was wearing. 'Of course I knew! I asked. I got information. I wanted to know why you were so concerned about crossing and discovered much to my amusement that it was because of Sam! Now you have destroyed the one hope of peace I have ever had. That one bit of hope, gone. If you had ever loved me and I don't believe you have, then you would have thought of it. If you had any feelings for Sam, you would have found out how to recover him, but you only ever think of yourself. You selfish, son of a bitch!'

Floyd slapped him.

Oh he knew that it was going to be followed by a bollocking from The Old Woman, but right now that was the least of his worries. The bitch! The fucking whore Old Woman had colluded against him. She'd told Spencer things she'd never told him! What the fuck was going on with this... this whatever the damned hell it was! So as Spencer stood with a shaking hand over his face and a bloody nose – as that was a slap which was probably done with more force than he had intended – he walked to where the girl was nattering to the withered up old bitch and pushed the child out of the way. Floyd heard an _umph_ as she fell to the grass but he didn't look... he was standing with all his fury directed at The Old Whore.

'Why did you tell him? Why tell him and never tell me?'

'You never asked. He did. Had it been solely your business I'd not have said, but as this mess you made involved not only you, but Spencer, Sam and some poor recently moved over soul called, Levin then I considered it Spencer's business as much as yours. I'm not here to take sides...'

'LEVIN?' Floyd bellowed. 'What in living arses has he got to do with anything?! What in mother's holy armpit is going on here? Why have you worked so hard to draw me to you and then trap me like this? What the fuck have I done to you? I want, need... I need to be with me... just me... I don't want Spencer, I don't want Sam... I sure as hell in a basket don't want Levin! What have you done to me! Why? What for? Tell me! Don't just stand there looking like a withered prune! Tell me what the hell this game is?'

Floyd seemed to be on his knees. He'd not intended to do that but there he was, head looking at a pair of old leather sandals that the Bitch had on, staring at her bunions, yellowing toenails and dry rough skin. He tried to look up. He tried to reach out and break a small tidy ankle, but his hands were on the grass. His eyes locked in place.

'You forget yourself.' She spoke down at him. 'Never raise your voice to me again, boy. You are here under my protection because I felt a soft spot for you. Don't give me cause to throw you out. Where will you go if that happens? You should have finished Spencer off years ago when you were told to. You should have never used someone else to do that job for you. You should never have created Sam. Now all of those things are part of you and you need to sort it all out. You've foolishly bonded yourself with Spencer so he will have to go with you. Remember, boy... if Spencer dies you are trapped. If he cannot cross with you, then you cannot cross. I ask you before you start pulling out more of that grass and stuffing it between my toes, that you look at the ones who have done what you've done and failed. The ones stuck here. Go to the mountains and take Spencer with you. Show him what will become of you both because the pair of you are too stubborn and too needful of each other that you fight against what is so simple. Get up. Take him with you. Think of what you see and maybe you'll start to work together and not against. Until you've come to some kind of forgiveness and understanding you'll not be moving on. And I have always have place for you... you're like a child to me... Now... leave. I don't want to see you again until you have realised what it is you want and what it is you really desire – both of you. Fools... the pair of you... fools.'

The grassy sandals moved back out of the way and the feeling of something pushing down on Floyd's shoulders left again... he was holding lumps of grass in his fingers though.

They walked. Neither wanting to be the one to speak first. Floyd out of fury and Spencer out of petulance... at least that would be what Floyd had said. Spencer would have said it was himself who was furious and Floyd who looked like he was going to throw his toys out of the pram.

Spencer's anger was not only at Floyd, it was at himself. He could have given Rossi a few dreams, let him know that throwing Floyd down the toilet would have been a far better answer; as long as it was not his own toilet it was going down. Would any man sit again on a bowl, knowing that Floyd was somewhere down there? At least that put a twitch of a smile of Spencer's face.

Floyd though thought if he opened his mouth to talk it would just be one long _fuckingfuckcuntfuckshitbastard _and so for now kept his mouth shut. He'd been to the mountains before. They backed onto The Great Grass and if you had the nerve to climb over them, and the permission, there might be a big old lump of redemption the other side waiting. However he'd never taken time to look closely at the tall pointed rocks which towered up into the clouds – at least they would have done had there been any clouds, but as it happened there weren't.

Time is not a very fluid thing here. They both know that. Distance doesn't seem to follow the usual rules either and Floyd also knows that. Unsure if Spencer does he explains between gritted teeth.

'The bastard place is set to confuse weak minded fucks like you.'

Spencer said nothing. Kept on walking. He'd taken his shoes and socks off and was feeling the coolness of the grass under his feet.

Floyd let off a bit of steam... he thought it would have stopped by now, but occasionally he could still do a good dragon impression.

'If there is a place you need to get to, it will come to you. If there is a time you need to be in, that too will come to you.'

'Why are you bothering to talk to me. You can't say anything I'm interested in.' Spencer now snapped back at him.

'Because I wanted you to be educated. I didn't think you'd want to remain ignorant of how things are and I thought you'd wonder how those mountains are so fucking close when we've been walking for only a few hours... they had been a smudge in the distance...'

'I'm not interested.' Spencer walked a bit faster.

'I do think that you should listen to me.' Floyd had stopped walking and sat down, picking a few flowers and twisting the stems together. 'Sit.'

'For the love of...!' Spencer exclaimed and walked back to where Floyd was sat. 'Have we not talked enough? Isn't it time we actually did something? She said we needed to look at the mountains.' Spencer then pointed at them. 'There they are. Inching closer. Let's just go and see what it was she wanted us to see. Then, maybe then I'll talk to you.'

Floyd held out the flowers. 'I saw these. Thought of you.' He then crushed them in his hand and threw it aside. 'They still make me think of you. I don't get it Spence. I just don't understand where this attitude sprang from. Were we not content? Happy? Did I not provide you with your every need? Did you want for anything apart from better company?'

'Yes, Floyd you did. You provided all I'd need. You paid my rent. You spent sick amounts of money on books and things... sometimes lovely things. I accept that. Then you take it all from me again. You give with one hand, snatch it away with another. I'm meant to be grateful? I'm not a child. Stop treating me as one.'

Floyd bounced back to his feet again and walked after Spencer who was jogging now. 'I don't treat you like a child! I fuck you!' He called out...

And with that Spencer stopped again, spun on Floyd and shook his head. 'You are disgusting.'

'What? What now? I just... fucking hell Babes. What have I said now?'

'If you don't know... I'm not going to explain. What's this?' Reid bends down and looks at a lump of shiny rock showing through the grass. At first that really is all it seems to be, but if looked at at the right angle it did seem to be a very worn down face. The nose a bit flat, the lips wide and plump, a mop of hair which snaked out into the grass like onyx tendrils. Eyes... they looked like eyes, very worn and not really distinguishable unless the light was in the right place.

'Oh.' Floyd leaned in closer, hunkered down. 'It's not rock.' He gave Spencer a glance and then looked back at the face in the grass. 'You poor shit. How long you been stuck here?' It didn't answer. Spencer was more than glad about that! 'I think this is maybe what she wanted to show us. At least partly.'

Now Reid knelt on the grass for a closer look. 'This will happen to us?'

'Is this what you want to happen, Spence? Or shall we move onwards and try to get the job done.'

'It's not my job.' Spencer stood again, looked up at the mountains. 'Is all of this made up of the ones who wouldn't or couldn't cross?'

Floyd gave the face a light stroking and then stood, looking upwards towards the summit. 'I should think so. Do you want to get a closer look?'

'We should.'

'Should... perhaps. But do we need?'

'As I said, we should. Or are you afraid?'

'Not scared, Spencer. More alarmed.'

'It might not be so bad.'

'It might also make our brains explode and I'm only just recovering from that; don't want to have to do it again so soon.'

Spencer nodded. 'You wait here. I need to see for myself.'

Well Floyd wasn't going to allow that, so with deep reluctance he followed his love... well he followed Spencer and the more they walked the more rocky protrusions could be seen. Some of them worn completely smooth and mostly submerged into the ground, but some had faces which looked to have been carved in black marble. Most were just a nose and mouth and a faint show of hair... but some looked as though the elements had not reached them yet. The eyes wide, the mouths open and full of dirt, clumps of grass... a beetle ran out of a mouth making Spencer cry in shock and move quickly back.

They heads, because there seemed to be no bodies here, were now appearing to be piled one on top of another, all of them screaming, all of them terrified. Floyd gave them only cursory glances, it was Spencer's reaction to this he was watching. He could see that stilted way he was walking, the way he was flicking his head from side to side. He could hear the quick sharp breaths he was taking. When Floyd finally approached him and put a hand on his shoulder, Spencer turned and threw his arms around Floyd and wept bitter and painful tears. Honestly Floyd had not been expecting this. He'd been preparing himself for more insults and anger, not this heartfelt sorrow.

Floyd patted Spencer on the back with one hand and clutched at the back of his head with the other, holding tight, keeping Spencer in place.

It is very hard to keep tabs on time... but when Floyd eventually pushes Spencer back, and with a finger lifts the soggy face to look at him... well his shoulder is covered in tears and probably snot. If there is snot there he might have to break Spencer's neck. Snot is one of the few things which makes him want to hurl. For now he doesn't investigate... hopefully it'll sink in and become part of his general revoltingness.

'Hey.' Floyd wipes at Spencer's tears, keeping his fingers away from nose and upper lip. 'Wipe your nose and let's get back. We have plans to make. I'm assuming that neither of us want to end up like this?'

Spencer mumbled something and put his head back onto Floyd's shoulder. 'I know if I go with you to get Sam that I will die there. I know. What options do I have? Stay here and become one of these monstrous things or come with you? Neither fill me with much joy or hope. I have a very childish need to go home, lay on my bed and sleep. I'm so tired. So very tired. I've tried hating you and it's working well, but I can't stop thinking that our perspective on peace and happiness do not match. How can we both be content and happy if we both need such different things?'

Floyd slipped a hand down the back of Spencer's jeans and ran a finger along the curve of his buttocks. 'I don't know how it works, Babes. We just have to trust that it does.'

'And before more... before more happens and we go on this trip... I have to know, why didn't you do the job yourself?'

'A few reasons for that...' A hand was undoing the front of Spencer's jeans, popping open the buttons, pulling on the belt. '… one of them was that... one of them... kneel... kneel for me, Babes. Thank you... I didn't want that on my conscience. It's only a tiny thing... my conscience, not your demise... which was mighty and wonderful... On your front, Sweet-Thing... hand and knees... I needed... I wanted... oh... I couldn't...'

'OK... now...' Spencer moaned. 'Hush.'

And as easy as that, amongst the screaming heads Floyd took Spencer back completely. At least for now. He knew it'd not last, but it would last longer than he just did... how he'd missed a bit of larking around where you shouldn't. Nothing quite like it.

They lay back and look at the sky, side by side, holding hands... gentle touching making each jump and laugh. This was how it will be. Floyd was sure. This was how eternity will be.


	12. GLAMOUR

Chapter Twelve.

**GLAMOUR:** _A magic spell; charm._

Now sure that staying on The Great Grass was not something he wanted, Spencer's anger towards Floyd rolled over to become something different. He was stuck between two places and he had no wish to be in either of them. His only way forward now was to ensure that Floyd kept him safe. To do that, he was going to have to make Floyd believe that he had forgiven him. That he was once again the battered and needy Spencer and actually he _was _needy, but not in the way he intended to let Floyd think.

The _lovemaking_ – if that's what it could be called, over by the stone heads at the base of the mountain of lost souls was just a first step. Had he enjoyed it... he would have been hard pressed to have said he hadn't and he'd certainly not been forced to do anything he didn't want to do, but putting that aside, Spencer was not going to fall for Floyd's charms. If something was done, it would be because it was a means to an end... and that end was freedom. To be across the water – across there and without Floyd.

He just needed to work out how to rid himself of the bond Floyd had forced upon him. Talking to The Old Woman would not get the results he needed. Spencer was aware of the feelings they had towards each other. It was a mother and child relationship and though Floyd was riled by what she had failed to tell him, he was still her priority. Spencer was very aware of that. Now his only choice was to go with Floyd and search for Sam and along the way find a way to break the bond and become free. Once free of Floyd, Spencer intended fully, to return, cross and never have to see the brute again.

'You OK there, Babes?' Floyd broke into Spencer's thoughts. He turned to look at the man he was walking next to. Somehow that roughness he'd seen was fading and though Floyd's hair was a greasy mess and though his skin look old and papery... even though Floyd had what looked to be a cold sore at the corner of his mouth and a zit the size of his head on his neck... through all of that there did seem to be a hint of something else. Maybe it was the eyes or was it the voice or the fact that the stink of the fire was not as pronounced as it was. Spencer looked at Floyd carefully and tried to work out what it was, exactly, that was different... nothing... he was just getting used to seeing this decaying monster.

Spencer sighed and nodded. 'I'm fine. Just not excited about the trip. How long will it take? Do you know where to go? Do you know where Sam is?'

Floyd licked his cracked and pale lips... was his tongue dark? Were his gums swollen? Spencer looked away and thought about what he'd recently put in Floyd's mouth and his stomach heaved and his breath hitched.

'No, no and no... I have no idea. Obviously I know where I was when he was created, but that no ways means that is where he is now. I suspect that would be much too easy. I can't just walk in and take him... it's not like he's going to be sitting somewhere waiting for me. Well... he might be... it might be that easy, but I doubt it.'

Spencer started walking again. He tried to stay a step or two in front or behind Floyd. Preferably behind him... though that meant he had to look at the black grime on Floyd's neck and the sweat stain on the back of his waistcoat... he'd see the way the small gathers of cloth on his dropped shouldered sleeves were streaked brown and yellow with age and general filth. However, somehow that was better than having Floyd walking behind him... and if they were side by side Floyd would keep speaking to him and Spencer didn't have the answers Floyd wanted... or not the correct response to things. There was also the fact that all the time Spencer could see exactly how revolting Floyd was, that it kept his mind grounded.

'You know where to start asking?' Spencer spoke over his shoulder.

'With The Old Woman.' Floyd replied. 'But I don't think even she knows. Things are not always shared between the two opposing factions. There's a war on... well there's always been a war... but it means more when you have to make your way through the filth and not have some handy plan. Not that my plans are ever very handy. I'm trying to work out when something I've arranged has actually gone the way I had it gone in my head.'

Spencer made a sound. It could have been any sound. It was just to let Floyd know he was listening. It was easier than asking another question or giving an idea which he knew Floyd would not listen to. This was Floyd's territory, not his and so even though Spencer had no faith in Floyd he was going to have to trust him slightly.

He wanted to ask Floyd why he could see what he could. He wanted to ask him when he last changed his clothes or washed. He wanted to know where the never ending supply of cheroots came from or the money... Floyd was never short of cash.

Standing now for a moment alone he watched The Old Woman wrap her arms around Floyd and press him to her frail old body. How could she possibly _like_ Floyd? Was she as blind to what he really was as he had been himself? Surely not. Floyd called her a god... If a god couldn't see past the glamour then why could he? For now he put that thought to the side and attempted to force himself to at least be polite to Floyd, though even that was becoming a struggle... and there was an odd feeling inside seeing that repulsive creature so close to The Old Woman. Jealousy? Perhaps.

Spencer sat at the side of the river where the grass was growing and the bank higher. No one crossed at this point and the few other people who appeared and splashed their way across didn't even glance in his direction. Why would they? They have found their salvation. They were able to cross and be welcomed by loved ones. Then Spencer realised with not so much shock but a deep brooding resentment, that he had no lost loved ones. All he had was Floyd, who was now sitting next to him on the river bank and sliding an arm around his waist.

It was all Spencer could do, not to move away. He took a deep breath which wouldn't go un-noticed and looked down at the silvery, flowing water.

'Are there fish in there?' It was something to say.

'Fuck knows.' Floyd replied. 'Don't see why not.'

The arm pulled Spencer closer; Floyd pressing himself against Spencer, who had his arm in the way as a barrier, hopefully it not noticing too much.

'When do we leave? What did The Old Woman tell you?'

Floyd dug fingertips into Spencer's waist. He still felt warm, much too warm. There was a small hope that Floyd would suddenly combust and that would solve so many problems that just the idea of it seemed to release a lot of the tension he was feeling.

'We leave when you're ready. Put your shoes back on. As for what The Old Woman told me, nothing to concern yourself with.' The arm stopped its embrace and Floyd shifted slightly away. Spencer wondered if he'd been too cold. Had his true feelings shown through.

'I would like to know what she said.' Spencer insisted, but turned to look at Floyd who was picking at the spot on his neck. 'Keeping secrets is part of what caused this mess.'

Floyd wiped his fingers on the front of his waistcoat. Something yellowish was sliding down the side of his neck and soaking into the fabric of the collarless shirt. Spencer could smell it. It was like something had died and crawled out from under his skin.

'I'm not keeping secrets. I'm just telling you that it's none of your fucking business what she said to me. It wasn't about you. Wasn't about anything you'd like or be interested in... what are you looking at?' Floyd's hand went back to the thing on his neck, prodding and squeezing at it. Spencer felt mesmerised by how repulsive it was. A cyst maybe? The stuff coming out was now almost green in hue and thick... and was it moving of its own accord? Spencer snapped his eyes shut and looked away.

'If we are going to start this journey with things unsaid and information not shared then maybe I'll wait here. I'm sure I can find something to do. Count the blades of grass maybe?'

'Don't be a bitch all your life, Spencer. She was wishing me luck. Telling me she loves me. Saying that I am to her what Sam is to me... of that I'm unsure of the meaning.'

'She means she's your mother.' Spencer snapped at Floyd. 'Isn't it obvious? Didn't you know that?' He stood and moved further away thinking of his own mother and how much he would have liked to have a conversation with her, how much he loved her and needed her... and Floyd who had someone, didn't even care enough to realise who his mother was. It just embedded that loathing a little bit further.

'Do something with that thing on your neck.' Spencer said with as much spite as he could muster. 'It makes me gag just looking at it.' He then strode away, away from Floyd, away from everything... walking through the grass, wishing he had a room he could go into and a door to close, a corner to curl up into and scream.

Spencer was standing, trying not to think of what other horrors Floyd's body was going to show him, head tipped back, eyes closed... A hand lightly touched his back. It reminded him of the hand from the house, the one at the top of the stairs. It was hot, unwelcome and it made his stomach turn. It was Floyd this time though, which did not much to stop his stomach from churning.

'Spencer.' Floyd sounded tired... or was he just bored. Spencer didn't turn to face him. Didn't know if he ever could again. 'When I arranged for Levin to kill you, some of the... vision – the image you see, slipped.'

Spencer dipped his head but kept his eyes closed and still didn't turn to face him. 'You paid someone to kill me, and in turn I can see what you really are? And some? _Some_? If this is a taste of what you really are...'

'An Angel.'

'A corruption.' Spencer corrected. 'I think you've lost your mind. I think you've never been anything but a monster. It's your sick mind that has made up these stories in your head. A demon? I would believe that. An Angel? No. Not to look at...' Spencer paused and slowly turned, opening his eyes when he knew he was facing him. 'Do other people see you like this?'

'I'm seen to reflect how someone thinks of me, Spencer.'

Reid raised his eyebrows. 'And knowing that Levin killed me on your command has done this?'

'I don't know. I can't see what you see, Babes. But we're getting there. Things will get back to how they were. We need time. We are still healing – reeling – from the shock of what happened.'

Shock? It was no shock to Floyd! Spencer wanted to kick him in the balls and go become a rock face, but he put out a hand and rested it on Floyd's chest. He was going to have to feign his way through this diabolical – in more way than one – trip... at least still there was that small hope... a very small hope that he'd be able to escape Floyd on the way. A life in hell would be better than turning into a rock.

Surely?

They started their journey with The Old Woman waving a quick goodbye and words of luck on her lips. Floyd kissed her on the cheek and she kissed him on the forehead. Very sweet. Very caring. Yet to Spencer, Floyd still looked like a diseased homeless person. He stank like one too. Only occasionally would Spencer get a waft of the smells which used to linger happily around Floyd. They were buried for now beneath the contempt Spencer was feeling for him.

It was marvellous is a way – he had to die to see the truth. He had to be killed by some blond slut so that he could see what people like Morgan or Hotchner saw. Spencer wasn't so sure that Rossi saw this abomination. Maybe Rossi saw something else. Whatever they saw didn't matter now, Floyd was pulling up a wooden trap door in the turf and looking down into a hole in the ground.

'This way.'

Spencer rubbed at his nose and took a step forwards to look. It was steps made of the same black stone of the mountains. There were oil lamps on the walls, in small alcoves, but the stairs twisted like a long black coil and he couldn't see where they ended. It was like a tomb. The cool air which rushed up to meet their pale faces had a smell of toilets... old and unwashed bodies... old chip pans and maybe a hint of southern fried chicken.

'What's down there?' Spencer asked.

'Hell.' The Old Woman replied. 'The steps take you down to the cross roads where you must make your choice of direction. Make a wise choice and try to make a choice you both agree upon.'

'And can you give advice on which way to go?' Spencer was now hunkered down, peering at the steps with were only wide enough for one person at a time and had no hand rail. They looked damp, slick with slime or maybe water, or perhaps the rock just reflected the lamps. And who lit the lamps in the first place? This was not a place Spencer thought he was going to be going. Not down there. Not with Floyd... not with the door closed above their heads.

'The choice I would make would not be the one you would. I can only tell you that you should agree. Now please leave. I will worry. I will hope for your safe return. Floyd – Isgar, my boy... take care. Bring the young one back. Don't waste time.'

Floyd went down first and Spencer a couple of steps behind him. There was more than one reason that this order was decided, by Spencer – if he fell he wanted something to land on, he didn't want to walk into something waiting for them on the steps and he didn't want to feel Floyd's hand on his back again. This meant that he was forced to look at the back of Floyd's head and Spencer was sure he could see things moving about in it.

The door slammed above his head. He felt the downdraught of air on the back of his neck and head and suddenly the place was even more suffocating than before. Spencer paused. He could feel the slick steps underfoot, the walls ran with water... Floyd seemed to be steaming slightly. The air was a fug which Spencer was sure would have given him some fatal lung disease had he not already been dead. It was painful to breath and moisture was soon popping up on his hands and making his clothing stick to his skin.

He had to stop for that moment and cough... spit out what it felt he was breathing in. Floyd paused too and with one hand on the wet wall turned to look at Spencer.

'You'll get used to it.'

Was that a smile on Floyd's face. The lighting was horrible, greenish and foggy. It was hard to see if that was a smile or if part of Floyd's face had fallen off.

'How far to the bottom?' Spencer needed to know.

'Thousand steps to the first rest place. Count them. It will keep your mind off the foul air and the damp. Honestly, you'll be wishing for wet by the time we get there. Hell's not known for its moistness.' Floyd then turned again and carried on walking downwards, keeping one hand on the wall. Spencer did likewise, but with both hands... the curling stairwell was so narrow at points that only one hand was needed, but when Spencer reached the count of five-hundred he called for a stop.

'Need to sit.' And that's what he did. They'd seen nothing but black walls and water. Nothing even grew here... no fungus popping out from cracks in the wall and the little alcoves where the lamps stood where puddled with fouled water which upon testing was warm to the touch. Spencer didn't test it again.

Floyd sat down a few steps on. He looked up and again Spencer couldn't really make out his face.

'So we're halfway there.' A relief. A marker. A place to rest.

'We're half way to the first rest place. We're a long way from being there. It could take days, Babes. But there might be a place to lay down and actually rest, but I'm suspecting that the dead don't need to sleep.'

Spencer frowned at his travelling companion. 'Do the dead get cramp?'

'You've got cramp? In your legs? Fuck Spence, we've only just started. Don't give out on me already. You want to stay here? I'll go on and you can catch up.' Floyd stood and turned, hands on the walls.

'I don't want you to leave me here.' Spencer sighed. 'Understand that I'm having a problem coming to terms with the fact that I'm dead. Surely that's not to difficult for you to understand. Just give me a break will you?'

'Walk... be quiet. You're beginning to whine like Sam.'


	13. ANGEL

Chapter Thirteen.

**ANGEL:** _A person having qualities generally attributed to an angel, as beauty, purity, or kindness._

Floyd was wary of Spencer walking behind him. Not because he thought something would jump out and grab him, Spencer, because he was very sure that nothing would have little or any interest in his Babes... he was slightly concerned that Spencer would fall, which could in turn cause himself to fall, or maybe Spencer would give a quick _accidental_ shove between his itching shoulder-blades. At one point, Spencer even put a hand on his shoulder, which he put up with for a short while, but Spencer's had felt like ice to the fire he himself was feeling. It was as though his insides were still boiling, and though the blowing of steam had all but stopped, he was not looking forward to the fart he could feel building in his stomach. It was likely to cause fire damage to his jeans.

'Who keeps the lamps lit?' Spencer asked.

Floyd had told him that already... surely... or had he just ignored the question so many times that he thought he'd answered it. Still for now he didn't bother replying. They were nearly there, at least they were nearly at the first landing and they could sit in comfort, after they'd squeezed through a particularly narrow place where they had to walk sideways with noses against the wall and breath in, holding in stomachs... not that Spencer had much of one and nor did Floyd, but it was still done by both of them. The ceiling height was much lower at this point too. Spencer was buckled to the side and Floyd's head was scraping on the smooth stone. It was worth complaining about. Access should he safer. There should be hand rails, and something on the steps to stop them being so fucking slippery... there should have been more light, better air... and perhaps somewhere to get a drink or two along the way. Floyd knew that complaining would be a fruitless action as there was no one to complain too.

'Ten more.' Spencer now announced. Floyd stuck his head through the gap at the end and like being born from the cunny of a big black beast, Floyd slipped out and onto the ten foot square landing area. Spencer flopped out of the gentle embrace of the stairwell a second or two later.

Both sat. Spencer with his back to the wall and Floyd facing him pressing his back against the stone the other side. Head height was a bit better here. Fifteen feet at a guess... There was a long distant sound too, a _whump, whump, whump_ of some kind of air movement system run by little slaves pulling on ropes like you would ring bells in a church. Up here on the first landing, it made little difference to the quality of air, but Floyd explained about the high tech air conditioning and filtering mechanisms which would come into play a bit later on.

Floyd watched Spencer rub his calves. A frown in his pretty face. Why couldn't he have stayed like this, cute, kind of shy and innocent... why had he grown old-er... why had he lost that wondrous spark of life he'd had? That would never come back. He was dead.

'Something wrong?' Floyd leaned forwards, touching the toe of Spencer's shoe with a fingertip.

'Cramp. My back is killing me. Headache. I feel I could sleep forever.'

A bit of a smile, very small... not noticeable... mainly an internal smile. 'Lie down and I'll give you a massage.' Floyd moved forwards, grabbed Spencer by the ankle... it pulled away slightly – almost as though he was going to kick back and push him away, but Spencer relaxed again.

'I'll be fine.' He pulled his feet close, wrapped his arms around his shins... rested his head on his knees and peered at Floyd.

'Then if you're fine, we'll carry on.'

'I'm maybe not fine quite yet.' Spencer was rubbing at his legs again.

'Then lie down. I'll give you a massage. Promise nothing else. Just that. Legs and back, shoulders... arms... let me try at least? Tell me to stop and I will.'

A promise. And he meant it too. The words worked. With a long sigh and a bit of splashing in shallow, warm puddles, Spencer lay on his front, resting his head on his arms. A mutter of words which might have been _Fuck You_, but might have also been _Thank You_... Floyd allowed for the latter option.

He started with Spencer's calves, kneading and rolling his knuckles over the tight muscles. He moved slowly up Spencer's legs, careful, very careful not to make this in any way sexual. For now that wasn't what Floyd wanted. He had to regain Spencer's confidence and also his own trust in Spencer. He actually forwent a quick rummage between Spencer's legs and missed out the arse completely, moving from thigh to lower back and not even brushing fingers over the flesh which he knew, knew very well, that Spencer would have love to have touched... stroked... prodded with a finger or two. But for now he needed to give no reason for Spencer to tell him to stop. A promise was a promise and he was keeping to it. He found every knot and lump of muscle he could find, up and across Spencer's back, onto his shoulders, temptation was there to straddle, but not now. That really would be too much. There would follow an _incident_ and that promise had to be kept in place. It would only last as long as the massage. After that he'd be free to touch again.

'How's it feeling?' Floyd asked as he ran knuckles down Spencer's spine.

'Like I died and went to heaven.' And a small chuckle. 'It's sublime. Don't stop yet.'

And so Floyd carried on... moving back down the legs until he actually heard that small and quite lovely sound Spencer makes as he falls asleep. Well... that relaxed him! Now the shit was sleeping? Floyd moved back and away, sat against the wall again and looked at Spencer. Who was fooling who here? Which one of them was trying to get the other to acquiesce, give in and let this become something trusting and loving again?

Loving?

Floyd grinned.

Not love.

Lust. Pure and unbridled lust. The love part was the sensation of winning Spencer over. That was what he _loved_, to see him on his knees doing what was commanded. That was what he loved. Surely that was the same?

He pressed fingers against the lump on the side of his neck. It had deflated considerably. Just a slight swelling. The fabric on the waistcoat shoulder and partly down the front of his shirt was sticky with something nasty. That would wear off. He puddled warm water into his hands and washed his neck, removed his waistcoat and shirt and gave them a quick wash in the warm water running down the walls. He got most of it off. At least he was showing effort here. He sat with the items spread on his lap, put his hand down the front of his jeans and with eyes closed he thought about Levin.

'The dead don't sleep, it would seem.' Spencer spoke and snapped Floyd out of his revery. He pulled his hand out of where it had been warm and comfortable and with a groan moved so he was kneeling.

'Ah.' He gave Spencer a little smirk of a smile. 'You looked relaxed. I thought you'd nodded off. How's the cramp?'

Spencer rolled onto his side and pushed up onto his elbow. Was that a flicker of a smile on his face?

'I'm feeling much better, but I admit that walking down another load like that isn't filling me with any sort of joy. I imagined unbearable heat and things prodding me with needles. Not this.'

'I can warm you up... prod you a bit... if that will make you happy?'

And that made Spencer sit, shaking his head. 'I was wondering, is there a time limit on this mission of ours? How long do we have?'

'However long it takes, Babes. If you're not ready to move on, then we'll stay here for a while.' He could be thoughtful when he wanted.

'Washed your shirt at last?' Spencer wiggled a bit closer. 'It was looking ready to crawl away of its own accord.'

'It was getting a bit stiff.' Floyd fingered the fabric, picked it up and put it back on again. 'Not sure it's made a whole lot of difference to you. You've taken a sudden rather violent dislike to how I dress. It's not been a problem in the past. Death has done odd things to you, Babes.'

Spencer slid even closer. Reached forwards and started to help Floyd put the damp clothing back on again. The shirt pulled over his head... the waistcoat had a double row of tiny black buttons. From where Spencer was, in this flickering oily light, Floyd actually looked almost like his old self again. Even his hair had unknotted itself and the ends brushed Floyd's shoulders.

'You're looking good, actually. Maybe that infection on your neck had something to do with the way you looked. Sick. You looked old and diseased.'

Floyd took Spencer's hand and was about to kiss those sweet bony fingers, but the hand was pulled away. 'I am old and diseased, Babes. Sick to my very heart. But you are good medication. You keep me looking young and sprightly. As I do you. This is why being together is of utmost importance. We need each other, Spence. Not just to touch and talk to and share fluids with, but all that other stuff, you know?'

Now Reid was on his feet. 'No, I don't know. We should go.'

Well that didn't last long. As Floyd walked down the next set of steps he wondered if it would be worth turning on Spencer here and buggering the sulky shit on the steps. Would Spencer be able to stop him from doing it? Actually why would he? Why would he stop him? Floyd was beyond resistance. Spencer would likely enjoy every dirty minute. He stopped, Turned and looked at Spencer who had also stopped and was bracing himself against the walls with his hands.

'Turn around and kneel.' Floyd told this tall gangly being called Babes.

'Not here.' Spencer took a step closer. 'Not here.' He repeated. 'When off the steps and when safe...'

'We are in hell, Baby, we're never going to be safe. What made you think that?

'Then it's going to have to wait. Not here.'

'Not here on the steps or not here in hell or not here ever...?'

'On the steps.' Spencer sat, still bracing his hands on the side walls. 'It's not safe. Please Floyd, not here. That massage you gave me was wondrous. You didn't touch me then. You didn't ask for more then, so please not now.'

This was perplexing. Spencer saying _NO. _Refusing the request to turn and go to his knees? 'I'll do you then.' Floyd snapped. He'd compromise.

He grabbed at the corded jeans Spencer had on, readied himself to unpop the silver coloured buttons and untangle the belt, but something caught Floyd off guard.

'NO!' A shout which started to echo back at him... just as the foot connected properly this time – unlike at the river, and Floyd felt his centre of gravity being displaced. He could see Spencer's face, then the ceiling, then the wall, a step, a wall... something ground into his face... and a shock of a pain in his back.

Spencer hadn't actually meant to do that. He sat on the steps for a moment looking at the place where Floyd had disappeared, around the forever curling stairwell. He heard the sound of Floyd bouncing off the stone, but no screams... no shouts. Just a soft thud and then nothing. Maybe he was just around the bend out of sight. Spencer wanted to call out to him. Get a reply. Know he was OK, but he just sat... counting in his head until he reached two-hundred and then slowly, once again bracing his hands against the slick wall, he stood and walked five steps down, then ten... twenty steps on and panic was beginning to set in. Where the hell was he?! This was Floyd! This was someone who was indestructible so how had it been so easy to just kick him out of the way when he wanted a grope? And if it had really been that easy, why had he not done it years ago?

He stood and listened again. Still nothing. His legs were shaking, his arms could no longer keep the tension on the walls.

'I've killed him.' Spencer said the words so quietly that he thought that they'd just been said in his own head. 'I'm free of him at last.' So why didn't he feel happy? Why wasn't he running back up the stairs and hammering on the trap door to get out... cross the river and finally have peace? 'I have to know.' That was the reason he suddenly broke out into a neck breaking run. All thoughts of being careful gone. He raced downwards, taking two, sometimes three, steps at a time, pushing off with his hands on the walls and his feet slipping on the steps.

He did look out for blood, but it the light was too poor for that and the floor too wet. He had stopped counting the steps so had no idea how far down he'd gone, but he did know that they'd only just started the descent before Floyd had tumbled backwards and not even called out, not a curse, not a surprise and not in pain... there had been nothing, which just made Spencer think all the more that his past love... the man who had tormented him for most of his life, was dead and broken somewhere.

His foot slipped.

Shoe flying off into the dark and downwards. At least he could pick it up on the way down.

His other foot slipped. He shouldn't be taking two at a time like this, he knew it as his heel glided over the stone and he came down, jarring his back, scraping over the edge of the tread and smacking his elbow on the wall, or maybe that was on the steps too. He hissed through his teeth. Hot angry tears started to form in his eyes. If only they had been for Floyd, but he felt nothing for him. It was just hope that he was dead. Wasn't it?

How had things turned so badly wrong? Where had all this hate come from? He rubbed his back, massaged his elbow, stood – and this time walked slowly, feeling his way carefully with his socked foot.

'Who lights the lamps?' He asked himself... might as well, just as likely to get an answer as he had when he'd asked Floyd.

His heart was pounding.

His mouth dry.

His stomach twisting and roiling... he was close. There was yet no sign that Floyd had fallen this far, no bits of skull or splashes of brain, but he still knew he was close. That tightening feeling in his chest. The way his breaths were so shallow that he had to pause and wait to stop his head from spinning. He could feel that constant tug, which meant that something was still there pulling at him and making demands of him. It meant that possibly just around the next bend... Ah! The missing shoe... he sat and put that back on over a soaked sock... Just around the next bend he would find Floyd and Floyd was going to be very much alive and he was going to tear him apart and splatter him against the walls. Oh Spencer knew that. He could almost smell the anger coming from just around the curve... he could taste the bitter smell... that stink of mad rage. It not only went up Spencer's nose but in his mouth, through his ears, eyes – making them water – over his exposed skin, like a trickle of ants crawling just beneath the surface. To turn that curve, to see what he'd done was beyond Spencer. He sat... put his head in his hands and just tried to breathe properly... to breathe and it not feel as though he was sucking in liquid. He coughed... realised he needed to pee and stood up again. There was no point in just standing here.

One way or another death was around that curve... ten, twenty steps and he'd know for sure. Either it was he who was going to suffer or he'd be free... The latter, please the latter.

The first two steps were easy. The rock under his hands was running with water here, a small shelf in the wall had a lantern with red and green glass in it, giving off a very strange light. He licked his lips. Realised that the small split in his lip was opening again. Stress... Take deep breathes. There was nothing he could do about the outcome now. It was too late. It had been too late the moment he'd let Floyd massage him... Actually it had been too late from the moment, outside of his school, as a young lad, some bullies had knocked his books out of his hands and a young man had shouted at them... pushed them out of the way, picked up his books and offered him a lift home on the back of his bike. The moment Spencer had agreed, the very instant he'd wrapped his arms around the stranger and taken in the odd musky smell and the scent of the old leather jacket... that was the moment it was too late.

There was another lantern now, but the light was very low, the oil running out. It caused deep black shadows to walk around Spencer and then follow him down the next few steps as though it was a cat following, asking for food. Another memory came back to him. He'd been sitting on the front step of his house, mother was sleeping. There was no supper again and a cat had come wandering over. He'd sat there stroking it and feeling that something actually loved him, but then a name was called and it ran off without a second look back. They'd both been hungry that day. It was the same day Floyd with his bike and jacket had come over and helped with homework... it was the same day they'd sat in the small kitchen and eaten chicken nuggets together and Floyd had drawn diagrams on the back of an old manilla envelope. It was the day he'd taken the contents of that envelope... a medical bill of some kind – and had said he'd pay it, ruffled Spencer's hair and left again.

There was blood.

Spencer ran his fingers through it. It was on the edge of a step. The light of the next lantern, some ten steps down – half way there (?) made it glitter as though it had some magical sparkles mixed in with it. It was warm... actually very warm. He'd felt blood many times, but this was almost too warm for comfort. Was Floyd's blood always this hot?

He didn't think it was. That nosebleed he'd had when they'd spent a few days in an old trailer in the desert... oh fun that had been! It had been when Floyd had those impossibly ancient guns. It had been when Floyd was sitting there twirling them on his fingers that Spencer asked him never to carry them again. They would surely explode in his hands. It was the time Floyd had kissed him on the mouth for the first time... how old had he been? Twelve? It had been an innocent kiss. There really had been nothing in it at all, but Floyd did get a nose bleed and Spencer had held wads of tissue there for him... soaking it up and getting some on his hands... bright red blood. Until then he'd not realised how hot and red blood was and now looking at his fingers he realised that maybe blood wasn't that red and hot... not usually. It was just Floyd's.

He had no tissue with him now though, so he washed the blood off his fingers and flicking his hand side to side to get rid of the excess water he carried onwards – downwards.

He thought he was going to puke.

That was another day – long ago. He'd been at uni for a semester. It wasn't the easiest of times. Not the workload but the inability to make friends. The lack of invitations to parties and trips. He was the outcast. Floyd had knelt with him all night, stroking his back, getting him drinks of water, talking to him, telling him it was jealousy causing it. The others hated him because of his intelligence. Floyd had told him to ignore them – he didn't need them... Floyd had all and more that then could offer.

'Stick with me, Spence. I'll look after you.'

Floyd had said that and Spencer had believed it. He knew full well that Floyd could offer him things he'd never ask any of the other students for. At that point – when things were going so badly at uni and his mother was so sick, and he knew that his father was a pervert... and all he had to cling onto was Floyd... back then he wasn't even sure if what they did was legal. Floyd certainly didn't talk about it openly and Spencer would never have said anything. Back then people thought Floyd was his older brother. They avoided him when Floyd was around. And he was around an awful lot for someone who wasn't a student.

'Stick with me, Spencer. I'll look after you.'

And now this.

All those summer days they'd spent at the river in the woods, laying on their stomachs on the grass with their hands dangling in the water. Floyd showed him how to fish with his hands, but Spencer never got the hang of it. Couldn't keep his hands still for long enough. Laying there later under the stars, watching the sky together, Floyd smoking, maybe taking some sort of drug – chewing on things which made Spencer's head spin and the sky turn upside down...

The staircase tightened again. Not as small as before, but narrower. He walked sideways for five steps and then the area opened up around him. A bigger space this time and well lit with candles on the floor along one wall, lanterns hanging from chains in a ceiling which was so high Spencer couldn't see the top. There was shelves dug into the walls and more lanterns sat there glowing... almost too bright. The air was stale. There was a sound of dripping water and there was Floyd. Not only Floyd. If it had just been Floyd, Spencer might not have reacted how he had.

There was a creature. It looked dark red, but it was hard to tell even in this bright light what the true colour of it was. It was sitting on the floor, back to the wall with no candles, looking up at Spencer with two eyes which were much too far apart in a head with no nose, but a large gash across the middle of the face which opened and showed Spencer a lot of shark-like teeth. It licked its lips.

In the creature's lap, laying there like a broken doll was Floyd. His head tipped back, eyes open and again his face looked red in the odd light.

'So the little one comes after all. Too late. Much too late.' The thing spoke from that hideous mouth, spitting and drooling as it spoke. It looked to be naked and hairless. It was certainly not even slightly human. The arms looked to have too many joints. There were too many fingers. The feet ended in something more frog like than anything else. 'Go away. You're too late. I've claimed it.' A hand stroked Floyd's face.

What was there to say? Was Floyd alive? What was this thing going to do to Floyd... would he leave Spencer alone if he let it have Floyd – was there any part of Spencer, just a tiny speck of him that would allow this?

'Is he dead?' Spencer whispered, moving to get a better view.

'Down here, you're either one of us, or you're dead, and he ain't one of us... nor is you, so yous both deaduns. What's the problem?'

'And what will you do with him?' Another slight move. This creature was huge. Spencer could try and fight it, but he knew he'd not win. Was there a point in them both dying?

'Drink the Angel blood. What else? It's so sweet. Come and taste.'

'I know what he tastes like.' Spencer snarled back at the thing. 'I know him better than any creature could know him. He's not yours. Put him down.'

The thing carried on stroking Floyd's face as it cradled him in those long bendy arms. 'You, you threw it away like old rubbish – dead thing – what did ya do that for if ya's wants it back? Huh? What you pay for it? What's ya price – dead thing?'

He had nothing. No money. Not a dime on him. All he had was what he was wearing and damp ragged clothes were not going to be much of a payment. He licked his lips and shook his head at the thing. 'I don't have anything.'

'Then why ya talking to me? Fuck off and find your own food, dead bitch.'

Another step. This was his chance. He could leave Floyd to this fate, but... 'He's not food.'

'So you imply, dead-thing, then what is he to you? What will you give me in return, huh? Left it laying around like damp old mutton, can't expect a fellow to walk away. Fell almost right into my lap. True gift from that old cunt at the top there. She sent you? That bitch upstairs? You from her are you? What's she to you? Why you down here?' Those vile fingers still stroked Floyd's unmoving face, but now Spencer could see slight movement. Floyd was breathing. Not dead. In which case Spencer was not going to leave him to be sucked dead by the thing sitting there. However much he wanted and did loath Floyd, that was not something he was going to allow to happen to him.

'She's nothing to me.' Spencer inched closer. 'She's important to him though and she will send others if he doesn't return. Others... others like me. Soldiers.'

'Soldiers? You? Make me laugh dead-cunt. You?'

'I pushed him. I pushed him down the stairs. You can sense how strong he is. You can taste it in his blood. You can see he's not dead. An Angel and I fought him and pushed him. I have to deliver him... he's my prisoner. You will hand him over or I'll give you the treatment I gave him.' Spencer tried his best to look and sound threatening, and maybe it was working. It was not easy to tell, but the thing seemed less sure about the situation now.

'You'd not hurt me. I've a job to do. Important job. Keep the lamps lit. You stop me and the masters will come for you and tear your little arms and legs off... nibble on them, dipped in honey and spices... you want that?'

'You want them to find out that the lamps up on the top flight have gone out?' Spencer said. Though he knew they'd not... maybe it would work... there was a chance?

Floyd rolled onto the floor as the creature stood. It was hunched over, possibly nine foot tall off demonic something... a tail lashed back and forth... a small tuft of hair or fur on the end of it.

'You lie.' It spat. 'I checked them not but yesterday... you lie.'

Spencer's eyes were on Floyd now, sprawled out on the floor. There really didn't seem to be much life in him. This was the perfect chance to escape.

'There are a few unlit and some very low. Maybe you should go and check. I'm sure it won't take you long.' Still eyes locked onto Floyd waiting for a movement... a sign that there was someone awake inside that floppy body.

'Won't take me long. Fine. I'll go check. You wait here.'

'Of course. I'll sit here.' He sat, legs crossed, hands on knees.

'When I'ms back, we will discuss payment.' The thing scuttled towards the stairs Spencer had just walked down. He had no idea how long it would take it. No idea how he was going to get Floyd out of here. No clue. But getting the thing away for just a few minutes was better than standing there watching it eat Floyd.

Spencer took a deep breath and then carefully and slowly moved towards Floyd. He turned him over onto his back and placed a hand on his chest to make sure that there was a beating heart there. He leaned in placing his head on Floyd's chest... listening carefully for any sign of life. Had he imagined the movement. It seemed as though he had. He could hear nothing... just that constant dripping sound and a slithering noise as the creature made its way up the winding, dark stairs.

'Please don't be dead. Please, Floyd...' He wiped his own fingers over a bloody face. There was a gash on his forehead and on the bridge of his nose. 'Wake up... please. I didn't mean this to happen. I just didn't want you touching me on the stairs. I said it wasn't safe... please... wake. I need you. I need you with me. It can't end like this.'

'Bitch, you kicked me down the fucking stairs.' A muttered voice replied. 'Do that again and I'll drag you down with me. I promise you that.'


	14. BANE

Chapter Fourteen.

**BANE:** _That which causes death or destroys life._

Floyd knew that Spencer would have been just as happy to see him dead or alive. He could see, sense, feel and smell it on his Babes. This need for him to be alive now was just because of the surprise of seeing him in the loving arms of something else. Didn't matter that it was not even a human, not by anyone's standards, it was a petty need to own him. And Floyd didn't belong to anyone. However, that matter aside, he allowed Spencer to paw him and squish their lips together and do a bit of face sucking. It was not the best and most wonderful experience, but knowing Spencer's false heart made Floyd feel as though it was himself taking the advantage here and not Spencer. Let him grovel and beg forgiveness. Let him kneel and whimper and plead. It was the least Floyd could do for him.

That coldness was forming again. That feeling that he'd emptied Spencer of all he had and there really was nothing left but lies and false hope. Whatever there had been between them was gone. All there was now was the joint need to find Sam and get out again alive – yet Floyd wondered just how much each of them was going to help the other to survive this. Again the dynamics had shifted and Floyd was very sure that that small amount of trust he'd had... that surety that Spencer wouldn't try something if given the chance, that was gone. Yet give Spencer the illusion that all was well. Don't let him see the falsehood and boiling disappointment Floyd was feeling.

'It was going to drain you of blood.' Spencer moaned with quite a good show of remorse. It was fakery. It stank of shit and piss and week old vomit which had been laying in the sun.

Floyd sat, wiped his face with his forearm and sniffed. His face hurt, but it was nothing he could not recover from. His back felt as though someone had been stamping on his spine, but again, a quick smoke would cure his ills for now. He gave Spencer a sideways glance and lit up with his silver lighter which Rossi had been so kind to ensure followed him.

'I didn't mean to kick you so hard.' Oh such lies! It was a stink enough to make Floyd want to puke himself.

'Just shut up about it. It's done. Over. No damage done that won't heal in time.' He blew some smoke rings as Spencer put an arm over his shoulders. Cold... so fucking cold! It was like being hugged by a block of ice. 'I'll smoke this and we'll move on.'

'You're not angry?' Spencer was confused. And so should he be! Be fucking confused bitch!

'Of course... obviously I'm angry. You want me to slap you around? You want what you gave me? I mean, that would be what I'd expect. Throw yourself down the next flight. See if you come out of it with just a few aches and a dripping head. What about that? Huh? No, Babes, I'd not expect that of you. But raise a hand, or foot, to me again and my wrath will be felt with such magnitude that you'll puke just seeing my face. Understand? Oh and love and stuff, blah, blah, blah... all that loving shit you like... My god you look fabulous today! Have you done something different with your hair, washed it maybe? No... something else, I think. Babes, my loving sweetling and darling... the love and light of my life, and death... I forgive you all and everything. Now compliment me back and forgive me in return and we'll be even.'

Spencer's arm left Floyd and hands, twisting fingers, cracking knuckles in Spencer's lap. 'I need to pee.' He sighed. His bladder was screaming at him.

'Then go do it. There's plenty of room and I don't think some dribble of Spencer scented piss is going to make too much difference to the pong. I'll not look if you're shy... or I'll tip my head back and open my mouth in readiness if you're feeling a bit of a libertine. I'll have you piss on me any day of the week, my darling sweetness... my perfect delight.'

Spencer walked to the other side of the room, snuffing out some candles. 'You're revolting.' He muttered.

'You won't be the first to say that, you wouldn't have been the first to piss on me either. Though I know most say they'd not do that if I was on fire... which I recently have been... just a thought, but the experience is not something to just nudge out of the way. You take other fluids into your mouth quite readily, as do I... why not that?'

Spencer didn't answer. He'd done some odd things with Floyd in the past but that had never entered conversation before. Floyd had never even hinted at it. Was he being vile just to make Spencer react? Well he wasn't going to. Though he was thinking that Sam was more likely to want to do something like that. He stayed where he was for a moment. A puddle forming around his right foot. He moved away and back towards Floyd who was now on his knees, hands on the floor in front of him spitting some blackish coloured lumps onto the floor between his hands. It was nothing. It didn't bother Floyd. He would rather spit the shit out than sneeze it... now that was an eye-watering thing to do. He wiped at his nose and mouth with an open hand and in turn wiped his hand on his thigh.

'We should leave before Harry gets back.' Floyd got to his feet. Had Spencer been anything close to being a gent he'd had offered a hand, yet he failed. He failed in so many ways it would have made a lesser man's head spin.

Spencer was looking in the direction the creature had gone. 'He's called Harry?'

'Everything has a name, my darling one. Everything... the smallest dot of a creature has a name it is called by... loved by... Even you. Even you who I think, for now at least is going to have to go first down the steps of doom and pain because I'm a little bit concerned that you're going to kick just that little bit harder next time. And for your own pleasure and relief... I need you alive, even if you don't me. Bear that in mind, Spence.'

Spencer gave Floyd his angry expression. All it managed to do was to make Floyd almost smile.

'Floyd, I need you alive too. I thought we were in this together. We both need to get out alive. Stop with the empty threats and stop with the vileness.'

'And if I don't, little one? What then? What if I just run off and leave you here to Harry? Will you come chasing after me like some poor hungry puppy? Yes... yes you will, because you might pretend to dislike what I am and what I do and how I think, dress, speak... smell and everything else you can pin to my name, you don't, you don't dislike it... you need it. So stop fucking whining at me and start walking. We've two more flights to walk down and I'm not resting again until we get there.'

'And what is there?'

'Shut up and find out.'

'What will be waiting for us?' Spencer didn't look like he was getting ready to walk down the steps. It didn't look as though he was taking any interest or notice of anything Floyd was saying to him. His expression had gone from that cute anger to irritating disinterest.

Floyd didn't know what was waiting. It was not always the same things in the same place. It could be the pits, or the stepping stones... it could be the metal bridge of wires or the nursery or maybe even the Bloomery, which would have a small slave market attached and would cause Spencer some sort of tantrum and upset. It would be easier if it was just some never ending brothel, but somehow Floyd thought his luck was not going to go that far. There were also the head posts, the hang-mans' walk and all sorts of wondrous and interesting places to beg, plead, bargain and run for their lives through... these steps... HA! Nothing... a rest... a way down to the real horrors and where amongst them is Sam? He didn't know. It was going to cost finding out too.

'Come cully... don't sulk.' Floyd gestured to the steps. 'Had you not kicked, you'd have me as a barrier, but you did and so no longer do you have me as protection... at least not whilst on the steps. MOVE! Move your arse... my darling.'

They walked to the next landing without incident. Without talking. This was not going to work out well. Floyd could feel that. It was a damned curse to have Spencer with him here. He needed his energy to locate and bargain for Sam... if he'd not been seen to and sold on to some place out of his reach, which was always a chance. There was no time to worry about Spencer now. No room in his aching brain to fit that bit of worry in too.

As they took a short rest on the next landing, Spencer rubbing at his legs again and making his knee click – Floyd hoped it hurt. A lot. As they sat there Floyd actually wished he could deal with Spencer now. Yet he was no more willing to do it himself now as he had been when Levin had done it for him. Was that cowardly? Maybe.

'When we reach the bottom, don't step off the landing unless we're in physical contact or we might well end up in different places. A hand on a shoulder or cupping an elbow would be fine.'

Spencer nodded and smiled. 'I'll be glad to get off the steps.'

Floyd stared for a moment at Spencer's smile. Had he ever seen anything quite like that before on a human? He wasn't sure he had. How can someone possibly smile and show their back teeth? It surely was a deformity. Not that having a wide mouth or jaw was a problem and it made for all sorts of fancy stuff Spencer could do, but to smile like that? Floyd shuddered and looked away.

'Your teeth are dirty.'

Hopefully that would keep the bitch's mouth shut for a while.

'And yours are particularly clean?'

Oh he answered back. 'Mine are never clean, sweetness... you are constantly scrubbing at your fangs... nasty taste in your mouth, huh? It's not a problem, Babes, just don't bare them at me like you're some primate. It looks threatening and you don't want me to smash them out of your pretty mouth, now do you?'

Spencer sighed and Floyd gave a quick glance. He'd shut his mouth. Hopefully it would stay that way until the cull was prepared to open it for some sort of fun. Floyd smoked some more, blew more smoke rings and silently sort of almost worried about Sam... almost sort of got concerned about Spencer too. Got very worried about his own precious skin. This was his last chance. His last way out of the mess and he couldn't afford to make a mess. Too much had gone wrong. He had a pile of crap he had to make up for...

Not killing Spencer by his own hand – now he could argue that it would never have happened had he not paid Levin to do it for him. Levin was a twisted and sick little bunny. And apparently he was somewhere down here too, though Floyd had not hurt him. He'd left him very much alive so he was unsure what happened there.

Not having his own head removed – Oh he'd asked. He'd been on his virtual knees begging for that to be done, but that had been very much out of his control. He hoped Rossi and Hotchner enjoyed watching him burn alive. Bastards. He'd trusted Rossi and he'd let him down. Though he had to admit that the man had done everything else he'd asked. However, there was a chance of some sort of bargaining and maybe a move forwards. It would cost. He'd lose something in return... and as he thought this he glanced over to Spencer... so maybe he was here for a reason. Maybe Spencer was what he was going to use to pay for his own life... and Sam's... maybe Levin's? No... Spencer was not even worth Floyd's life... he'd never stretch it out to the others too. Or was it really time to cross the river and be home.

Was it even home any more?

Floyd wondered where Spencer considered _home. _Was it that apartment? His old place in Vegas? Some hole somewhere... a den, somewhere secret? Could Spencer keep that sort of secret from him? Floyd thought not.

'So...' Floyd started to ask. Changed his mind. Spencer was finger brushing his hair. He actually looked perfectly delightful.

'I should never have gone with you that day.' Spencer suddenly said.

Floyd had no idea what day he was going on about and asked... which particular day was he whining about now?

'The first time I went with you on the back of the bike. Scared me half to death.'

'I kept you safe.' Floyd told him. 'Kept you from those bastards.'

'You did. But I was warned, as all kids are, to keep away from strangers. Don't accept lifts... and I did. More than once I did. You were not the first to offer me a lift home, you know? I should have just walked away.'

This was news to Floyd. Not the first? 'You accepted lifts? Who from?'

Spencer shrugged. 'It was a long time ago, Floyd. It no longer matters. As soon as you showed up there was no need to turn to strangers.'

'You... you went with pedos? You gave out favours when you were a kid?'

Spencer's eyes widened. 'Oh god! No! No... I didn't mean that! They were good people, Floyd. Not like... not... they...'

'Not like me, you mean?'

'No... stop putting words into my mouth! No... they were honest people.'

'Not even a grope?' Floyd's eyes had also gone wide. 'Never? Not once? No one ever wanted anything from you?'

Spencer looked down at his hands once again twisting in his lap. 'I was a child.'

'So you did.'

'I told you no.'

'And you lied. Tell me what happened.' Floyd moved closer to Spencer. Tears! Jolly good. It's upsetting the poor bitch.

Spencer rubbed at his face with his hands. 'I told you. Nothing happened. I just got a lift home.'

'Offered anything? Asked anything? Given anything?'

Silence. No answer.

'So you got lifts, got a few bucks for a fondle? They touched you? Took photos?'

Still a deathly silence.

'You never mentioned this before.' Floyd placed a comforting hand on Spencer's knee. At least it was meant to appear as a comfort, it was more of a _tell me more, tell me all... I need to know_, sort of hand.

'There's nothing to tell.' Spencer placed his own hand over Floyd's. 'Do you really think that if I thought there was danger in it, that I'd have accepted?'

'There is always danger accepting lifts from strangers. You knew that and did it anyway and never any trouble? Not once. I'm not including me in this because by the time your alarm bells started ringing I was no longer a stranger, so tell me, never? Not once did you realise that something odd was going on?'

Spencer's hand squeezed Floyd's. He licked his lips and chewed on the edge of his thumbnail. Thinking. Floyd could see Spencer was deciding what he should say. How much he should admit and how much to leave out. 'A man... Italian – I'd seen him around before. Other kids got lifts from him. I thought he was one of the dads. Might well have been. He was often parked outside the school. A red pick-up. Battered. Old rubbish in the back... I can't remember what it was now, but I know I thought he was going to the dump to get rid of it all. He called out. Knew my name. Offered me a lift home. I accepted. And he drove by my turning and further on, but I didn't say anything because he seemed nice and was probably just going a different way. You could circle round you see? Come in from the other way... but again he drove by the turning and eventually pulled in at a lay-by... He closed the windows. Un-buckled and moved towards me, put a hand on my leg. Told me I was a good boy... a nice boy... I opened the door and ran. That was the only time anything untoward happened. I remember running home, and throwing down my books and going to my room... wondering if he knew father, if he'd tell him. If I'd get a beating for running. I never saw him again. I never told anyone until now. It should have been a warning. I should never have taken that lift with you.'

'I didn't want to grope you, Spencer. I wanted to protect you. That's all. Just keep you safe. Make you happy... it must have been... years – months... it was a long old while before I even thought that this was going to be a long haul job... that I'd have to wait for you and you for me, of course.'

'A long haul job. Is that all I've ever been to you?'

Oh for god's sake... crying again.

'That's about it, Babes... that's not a bad thing though is it?' Surely that meant he intended to stay. If Spencer found that terminology offensive or worth a few tears or even a snarky look then it was worth saying it. In truth he'd not minded one second of his time spent waiting.

There was a lot to do. Not with Spencer, but roaming around just doing stuff whilst the lad grew into something worth putting his hands over. There was waiting... sitting alone watching the clock and doing a jig-saw, and there was waiting... screwing around, eating illegal things, getting high and drinking too much. Floyd tended to go for the latter, whereas Spencer was certainly a jig-saw type. At least most of the time.

'Will you ever tell me the truth about Constance?' Spencer asked.

It was amazing how long the cur would hold on to something so petty. Floyd had all but forgotten about funny Constance and the games played there. It no longer mattered. It was in a different life and a different time.

'She was wired. On some joints, not all of them. Through the bottom of the cabinet. They could be pulled on from understairs. Like an upside down puppet. That's all it was, Spencer. A toy is all. Nothing.'

'Then where did she go? Who moved her?'

'I put her in the walk in freezer. I knew that was a place you'd never go. Thought it funny to have you think she was walking about the house. It was a set up, my sweet. Nothing was real there. I played a little game on you. Levin helped me out. I recruited him. That's why he was there to pay for the job he did for me. I screwed him a few times. He's got, or had, a lovely arse. You need to shop around. See some sights. You might actually like it.'

'A joke. It was a joke?' Spencer shook his head. 'What about the books?'

'What about them. Levin again... small trip wires and stuff, passages behind the walls... spy holes and all sorts of fancy crap. What larks.'

'What larks, indeed.' Spencer's eyes had narrowed now. He was looking annoyed. Tell him that the place was haunted and he'd cry... tell him that it was a joke and he'd look all pissed off. Can't win with some people!

'Time to get going. Remember, don't walk off the bottom step unless we are in physical contact. Not even if you think you can see where we'll end up. We might not be seeing the same thing. OK?'

'Understood. You go first though. With a promise I'll not kick you.'

'Understood.'

Again the trip downwards was mostly in silence. There were a couple of places where a lantern had guttered and gone out, so Floyd nabbed one still burning and carried it. Now – if Spencer kicked him down the stairs now he'd break his face and catch fire! Floyd was not in the mood to be aflame again, just yet. He was still feeling the heat from the previous time. Walking through flames had never been too much of a problem. A bit melty occasionally, a bit singed, but never had he been incinerated before! Never again! Next time he'd demand a proper burial. He'd dig himself out of that easier than this damned mess.

Overhead now were fans sitting and swirling on the ceiling. The noise of the mechanisms set to swirl those ancient things thrummed in Floyd's head like wings battering overhead. He stopped to check Spencer was not too alarmed by it, held up the lantern and peered at his beloved's face. Such a pretty sight in the shadows, glaring down at him like an old oil painting of some debauched letch. What a sweet sight to see.

'How am I looking?' Floyd asked. He knew that his general appearance had taken a knocking and Spencer had seen behind the shroud he wore to disguise what he was, but how much had Spencer really seen and how much had he, Floyd, managed to pull back again.

'Well your tongue isn't black. I suppose that's a start. You're looking almost like you should.'

How he should? How he should in Spencer's mind, not how he should in his own. Floyd nodded. Accepted that for now and pointed upwards.

'Demonic aircon.' He twitched a tiny smile. 'Not that it makes too much difference to the air quality, but it's a sign that we are very close.'

Spencer looked to where Floyd was pointing. He'd already noted them. Had already been told about them when the sounds first filtered up the stairwell.

'Floyd' Spencer's eyes flickered back to the monster a few steps below him. 'Don't run off and leave me here.'

There was no reply to that. If but he could! He'd have run... run a million times over, but this bloody curse was so tight that it hobbled him and pulled him back. Threw him down a hundred times over and over again. Like a fairground bull being baited by some cruel master. Floyd's brow creased into a light frown.

'I can inject all sorts of shit into me. I can smoke it, eat it... drink it and debauch with it, yet there I am knowing each time that I can filter it out, take a load, feel small amounts of joy from it. You're the only thing that's ever been, only one I can't do that with. A terrible drug, Spencer. Horrific. It's ruined me. Now with that in mind, I'll not leave you, because I can't leave you. I need you as you need food, water and air. Happy now?'

He turned and moved off, noting mist forming around his feet. The steps harder to make out... would be his luck to fall now that he was nearly there – nearly where through? Somewhere to sit, relax and have some joy? No... damned if that would happen, and maybe it would as he was damned... He held the lantern out in front, but moved so he was standing sideways.

'It's time. Hold my hand. We're going.'


	15. SPIT

Chapter Fifteen.

SPIT: _To pierce, stab, or transfix; impale a person on something sharp. Cook them until tender, turning over an open flame._

Walking through the fog at the bottom of the stairs was like plunging naked into an ice old lake. Floyd felt Spencer's hesitation and gripped tighter onto a hand which was already as cold and damp as a dead fish. Both of them stumbled at the bottom. There was nothing. Nothing to see except a white-out and nothing to hear, not even their own footsteps. It was as though the whole world, or whatever this place had been, had been scrubbed away. There was nothing here. This was hell.

Spencer's hand twisted in Floyd's as a child would struggle with a parent to escape a hand, but Floyd was not going to let go. He dug his fingers into Spencer's cold flesh and dragged him forwards.

It was a slope. They were walking on a gradual decline and the swirling fog became less of a misty and damp afternoon and more of a solid form which had to be pushed through. The lantern was dropped. The light reflected back off the white, glaring and burning the eyes. Floyd wanted to tell Spencer that this was perfectly normal, he'd been expecting something like this... it was nothing to worry about, but when he spoke, the words were sucked away, whisked above his head and funnelled away from Spencer's ears.

It didn't matter. They would be out soon... soon...

Was this ever going to end?

Floyd felt Spencer stumble, go to his knees, but still Floyd had a grip on his hand, he took a couple of short steps back and put his other hand under Spencer's arm, hoiking him up off the ground, forcing him forwards like swimming against the tide... A tide of syrup or tar...

As the whiteness became dull... smoky and smelling faintly now of fish and armpits, as the white became dark and footsteps could be heard, beating hearts, breaths and cries... a lot of wailing and shouts for help... it didn't seem like they were going to exit and enter into a world of butterflies and wonder.

'Welcome gents.'

Floyd heard the words before he could get his eyes to focus and see exactly where it was they'd found themselves. He was still clutching Spencer's hand and that hand was squeezing tightly back. At least for now it was. When Spencer wanted protection of course he'd come running. Cowardly and shallow, but Floyd released the hand and pulled his own away, now rubbing at his eyes to get them to focus properly.

Standing before him was a thing – man thing – about the same height as himself, but twice as wide in all directions. He was in a butter yellow shirt which pulled across a huge stomach and a pair of lime green breeches which pinched in below the knees. The feet had little and delicate shoes with blue ribbons sewn onto the front, incongruous with the rest of the sweaty and shabby gear this person was wearing.

'Just passing through are you?'

For now both Floyd and Spencer ignored him. They were looking at the tall dark brick wall in front of them. Passages seemed to lead off into it, but from where they were standing it seemed that the passages where covered, brick tunnels as such.

There was still that sound of crying and now some raucous laughter too. Some old slag most likes. The crying though. A disproportionate amount of howling was going on.

'Where you going from here?' The man held out a bit of paper. 'You can read?'

Floyd snatched it from the man's hand and passed it to Spencer, put his hand out again for one of his own, then the pair of them stood shoulder to shoulder reading the note.

A General Guide on Directions and Usages of Passages and Through-Ways to the Many Wondrous Sights.

See:

_The Bloomery – A magical garden of fantastical plants. _

_The Nursery – Where you can peer into the cribs of the new borns and choose one to take home._

_The Head Posts – Watch the prisoners await their end. (All executions take place on the last day of the fifth year, call to make an appointment or turn up and just see what's on offer.)_

_The Alley of Impalement – Watch them Writhe and Watch them Squirm! Take bets on exit points and duration._

_Hang-Man's-Walk – Another good place to bet on expectancy, for the weak of stomach but not the pale of soul._

_Stepping Stones – Take a thoughtful trip into the tar pits. Can you get to the other side? Bets will be taken. See if you can cross. How much money can you make for your master?_

_Plus much, much more! Tell us what you like and we will direct you to the nearest outpost to deliver you your greatest joys!_

Spencer screwed his bit of paper up and put it in his pocket. He wanted to throw it away or hand it back, but he thought perhaps it might be useful.

Floyd wanted to know when the fifth year was up and was it going to be a long wait? He wanted to know if you could buy and sell, if he could take his own to be impaled... oh not his own who he has here now, but someone from the slave slop shops along the way? He can? Wonderful. That was what he'd do then. Always good to have a few no gooders trailing behind in chains...

'What do you think Spencer? Want to help me pick some out?' Turning back to the man handing out the papers he asked. 'Which lane for the best? No point in getting something poxed or syphed. I want something clean. Never know when they can be of use... you know?'

'Boys or girls?' The man asked.

'Boys... no... not kids. Not little kids. I mean male rather than female.'

'Boys to the right, girls to the left. Ages range, you'll have to sort that out yourself.'

Floyd looked in the direction the sausage fingered hand had indicated and took a step towards it, another step and then he turned back and looked at this fat tub of lard.

'And if it's a particular person?' He stepped closer to the man... as though he was going to whisper secrets. A hand on the lardy shoulder and he spoke into his ear. 'I'm here on account that I'm looking for someone. Where can I find out his exact location?'

The tour guide, if that's what he was, nodded and pressed a finger against the side of his nose. 'Many come asking for this or that. What you want? Something fresh?'

'My cunt-boy. He was sent here. I'm to perform a great rescue and return him to where I can have a bit of his pretty arse whenever I want. Now where can I find my boy?'

'Well I'd not be knowing that unless you tell me a name, now would I?' The man drooled as he spoke. It seemed he was enjoying this little conspiracy. Stinking breath. Stinking of the corruption of his own flesh. Disgusting, yet a homely stench.

'And I'm not about to tell you his name... you're just a messenger... you're just here to guide the souls to where they'd be most wanted. Now I'm thinking that because you didn't know where we wanted to go, then you're not expecting us. Am I right? Of course I am. Now you need to tell me what route I have to take to find the people who will know where my boy is.'

Now the bloke backed away, wiped at his shoulder. 'I'm not at liberty to tell you. If he's here, you'll come across him. That's if you want him badly enough. If not, then he's lost. It's all a matter of need. Your companion there – part of the dead, not like us... not meant to be here either. This cunt-boy must be very precious to you, but that one... that one there, if he don't want to find your boy then he'll be blocking it, so best make sure you're taking with you someone you can rely on to be loyal. Or you can leave him here with me. I'm always up to a bit of fun when off duty.'

Floyd looked irritated by this. Turned to Spencer and shook his head slightly. Would Spencer purposefully block finding Sam? He'd not dare. He turned again to the guide.

'Where is the record keeper's office. He will know. The lad I'm searching for didn't come here voluntarily. He's from here. He's not dead.'

'Keepers Office, left... first left then second right, but doesn't mean they'll have his name recorded.'

Floyd now snatched at Spencer's upper arm and pulled him in close... pressing himself against his beau and talking so close that lips brushed as he said what he needed to say.

'Wander off and they'll have you. Stay with me at all times. You will assist me in locating Sam or you will be left behind... we will be trapped here. Understand me, cully? We both want out of this place and you need to want to find Sam too.'

'I understand.' Spencer now put a hand on Floyd's shoulder and pushed him away, just slightly, not even enough for Floyd to have to take a step back... but enough for their lips not to be touching. 'I know that we have to find Sam. I've not forgotten.'

The passage they choose is wide enough, at least for now to walk two abreast. It's high enough not to be scraping heads on the rough surface, but it still feels claustrophobic and damp. The shouts and cries come from smaller side shoots, which Floyd insists are not the way they need to go. They must keep to the main walkways or be lost in the maze for ever, like many of the crying voices they can hear.

'Don't walk off.' Floyd instructs yet again. Spencer is getting tired of the constant demands and being talked to as though he was a child.

'I have no intention of walking off.' He snaps back. 'But let us get out of this place quickly.'

It amused Floyd. Spencer disliked the stairway which held no dangers unless you were pushed. He was now complaining about this, which was not unlike many ancient streets up-top in the world Spencer had just come from. This was nothing. This was a delight, in fact. Floyd would happily live in a place like this if his forest becomes unavailable. There were a lot of dark corners. A lot of shifting in shadows, a lot of chances to get a job done if needed. In a place like this you knew who to avoid.

Everyone.

Trust no one.

Believe nothing... yet he took directions from some hellish tour guide and thought nothing of it. It didn't even cross his mind that the man was not being honest. Sometimes you just have to go with gut feelings.

'You want me?' A girl shot out of a passage and stood barring their way. A girl with dyed black hair and a lot of black makeup. A short skinny thing. And no, Floyd didn't want her... he doubted Spencer wanted her either.

'For what would I want you?' Floyd asked. Always worth asking. You never know.

'I've got whatever you want.' She smiled... rotten teeth, black stubs... pale gums, but somehow she still didn't actually repulse Floyd. A lost soul. Scars on her arms... not unlike the ones Spencer had and a quick glance at Spencer let Floyd know that he too had noticed this.

'You don't have what I want, little girl.' Floyd pushed Spencer to the side to walk past her.

'Go and ply your trade with someone not wanting cock.' Floyd said, in not an uncaring way.

'I'll get you a boy if you want.' She put her hand out. 'Just a few pennies and you can have boys, girls... anything...'

But it was a particular boy Floyd was after and he didn't think this whelp would have Sam. There was no smell of Sam about the girl. She was just a distraction. He was too busy. No time to play games or inspect her stock.

'Not today.' And Floyd moved on with Spencer... touching Spencer on the arm. Making sure his companion knew he was there, knew not to walk off... knew that he wasn't the terrible monster Spencer seemed to think he was.

'Your loss!' She cries out... disappears back where she came from.

There are notices written on paper and glued to the walls. Spencer can't read the wording, but they seem to be adverts for something.

'What is this?' He runs a finger over a large poster showing a roughly drawn face and some strange symbols under it.

'A missing poster.' Floyd sighs. 'I suppose if it comes to it, then we could make one up for Sam.'

For a moment Spencer just stared at the smudged and not very well executed drawing, then with what almost looked to be sorrow, Spencer carried on walking.

They walked by many openings in the walls. Places with women twitching their skirts, boys rubbing at the front of their breeches or jeans... the occasional tit popped out for their inspection. There were what appeared to be gambling dens, wine sinks, whore houses and places where Floyd thought Spencer would not want to go. Not that he thought Spencer would much like to visit any of said places... but the ones trading in flesh would likely turn his stomach, as would the ones trading in young flesh. Not that it mattered. Spencer was not even glancing in through the dim doorways or taking interest in boobies or the cock jockeys. Spencer was trying to find the offices they had been told were just down here and around the corner.

It was a large room. There seemed to be lighting coming from somewhere, but from where it was hard to tell. The walls were tiled in dark green, shiny... cracked and dirty. The floor was dark red tiles and the ceiling was brown. Dirt or painted that colour? Unknown. There was a counter at the rear of the room; polished mahogony. Three people or such... maybe not actual people, but beings of a kind that could communicate in words... They seemed to be standing on a platform which raised them higher than the side of the counter Spencer and Floyd were standing on. A brass coloured metal grill was from that brown ceiling to the counter top. Around the edges of the room were wooden benches. Some had things sitting on them. Some looked as though they'd been shat on, pissed on... puked on and died on. The smell was eye-wateringly awful, but this was the place they needed to ask about Sam so this was the place they were standing in... in a line... a queue behind a monstrously tall dark skinned creature with a row of six perky nipples down her nut coloured skin. It made Floyd shudder. It seemed as though Spencer had filtered out everything bad or things his brain didn't want to see or understand and was standing in a daze, staring straight ahead, unblinking... holding Floyd's hand again like a child. A cold damp child. Floyd checked it was Spencer and he'd not been conned and left holding a bloated corpse, but no... good it was Spence. His darling. His curse. The bane of his life and now of his death too.

They moved forwards a step as someone shouted abuse and moved from the counter. Three more to go. It didn't seem to be taking very long either, which was just grand! Floyd needed to get this under way and he seemed to be spending a lot of time standing or sitting around fiddling his thumbs or being loving caressed by Harry.

'Dear Mother of the Saints.' Floyd hissed. He'd been waiting about ten minutes. Not known as the most patient of men... or monsters. Spencer squeezed his hand slightly. Was that meant to be a comfort, because it wasn't. It was a long way from comforting. Floyd's need to keep Spencer close was slowly being over ridden by his need to let go of him and run in the opposite direction.

The teated muffin in front was now hammering on the counter saying that her chickens had gone missing. At least Floyd _thought_ she said chickens... the person in the cap with gold braid and the fancy red coat was telling her she probably ate them and to go lay some more. She spat at him, turned to Spencer, spat at him too and pushed her way out.

A smile.

A real smile.

One that didn't look like he was going to eat someone or tear out a throat.

Floyd smiled as Spencer wiped the green ooze off his face.

'NEXT!'

And Floyd stood there in front of the grill, looking up at and ancient bearded face. The smile on his face slipped away as the creature bared his teeth to show Floyd that he'd brook no menace from him.

'A visitor. How quaint. What would something like you want in a place like this... cursed filth of the light?' The creature questioned Floyd. Cursed Filth of the Light. He'd never been called that before. It was rather sweet, so he thought.

'I'm looking for someone, so if you could check your records...'

A bit of paper and a cheap biro were slipped under a small gap at the bottom of the grill. 'Write your name at the top where it says... Enquirer. Write the name of the one you're searching for on the line beneath. We'll call you when we have something to say. One minute is all you have, so hurry and write those names... Isgar... it is Isgar is it not?'

Floyd said nothing. He didn't' respond to being called this, but the blood which had been boiling through his body suddenly ran ice cold. He quickly wrote _Floyd Flanders _at the top and _Sam Trent-Saviour_ at the bottom, then handed it back, slipping the pen into his pocket. They were then told to go sit and wait.

And they did wait.

Sitting with legs stretched out in front, ankles crossed, hands in laps.

One leg tucked under... arms crossed.

Legs crossed, foot resting on knee... hands behind head, inspecting the brown ceiling.

They changed positions, wriggled on the hard and stinking wooden benches. Stood, walked in small circles, sat... leaned forwards with elbows on thighs... grinding teeth... glaring at each other... eyes closed, eyes open... watching people and creatures come and go.

'How much longer?' Spencer hissed at Floyd. They'd been here hours and now Floyd had taken off his boots and was cleaning his toenails... at least he was not chewing them.

Look at the positives here. They had a seat. It wasn't raining. Floyd wasn't having sex with his toes. What a blinding relief life and death could be at times!

'Flanders!' Floyd's name finally called out. He leapt to his feet, shoving his boots back on as he walked, Spencer walking at his side pretending Floyd wasn't acting oddly.

'Here.' Floyd slapped his palms down on the counter. 'Took your fucking time, didn't you?'

'Well, there was a slight oddity with your request... apart from you not using your given name... creature of the light that you are, I guess you think you're in disguise? The light shines within...'

'It's not light. It's where I was recently cremated. What was the problem?'

'We've got your Sam recorded. I can tell you where he is, but getting him back will not be a walk in any sort of park. He has been purchased and sold onwards to some faction calling themselves _The Children of Pluto..._ I can give you a location, but they're a rough lot of cunts and if your Sam is still alive you're going to be a lucky bitch... Then... we get to see that someone had put in a request for your location, but at the time you weren't here... so we sent him on his way. I can tell you where that shit is though, if you want to find him.'

'The Children of Pluto? What the fuck is that? Where are they?'

'The Underworkings in the Beyond. But I'd not bother. As I said, if they got him there'll not be nothing left... Seems they'd been looking for him too. He's a popular boy. A screamer is he? They like screamers down there. As for the other, he's down on the blocks. The Head Posts. Get there before someone picks him... And don't forget to take something to trade. He'll not let you take a poster without having a trade. Levin. The name is Levin Lopez.'

Floyd nodded, turned to Spencer who had gone back to sit down with his grumpy face on. At least there was a plan of sorts now. Floyd knew where he had to go. Collecting Levin on the way was just a side-line and though Spencer might object, he still wanted to rescue the poor sod.

It was to a market they went to next. It was much like any market you might go to, stalls with coloured awnings, people calling out for you to stop and look, stop and buy, stop and be conned. There was that dank smell that always seems to gather around places where no one washes and people and creatures shit in the street. The cobbles were slimy with muck, which Floyd mostly ignored, but Spencer seemed to be having a fine time stepping over mounds of steaming brown crap. There was no point in telling him to just hurry the fuck up because Spencer didn't see that he was going to hurry any fuck up any fucking time! Pulling him, pushing him... snarling at him, nothing had any effect.

'So what's your fucking problem?' Floyd finally stopped, pushed Spencer down between two stalls and pressed him against the wall. 'I thought you wanted to find Sam.'

'I do!' Spencer looked shocked at such an accusation.

'Then why fucking dawdle? If you want to find him and get back where you belong, then you're going to have to walk a tiny bit faster. I don't expect you to go faster than light and actually that would be bad as all sorts of ugly shit happen if you do that, but can you damned well walk a little bit faster? I've things to purchase and your attitude is doing my nuts in!'

'I want Sam back.' Spencer hissed back at Floyd. 'I never once said I didn't, at least not recently.'

'Then what the hell is your problem?'

Spencer shook his head. 'You really don't know?'

'Would I be asking if I knew? I don't know... I'm fucking asking! What's the damned problem?'

A wipe of spit out of his eye and then those eyes were narrowed slightly. 'This place. We'll start with the fact that you're dragging me through some sort of slave market. Some place with body parts for sale if you can't afford a whole person... the fact that back there they were spit roasting someone and you stood with your mouth watering – It's the matter that I'm falling over shit in the street, seeing the most diabolical things and you, you seem to be enjoying it! It's like you're home. I'm not even going to touch on the business of Levin.' Spencer then tried to push his way by Floyd and carry on this vile journey, but he was tugged back and pushed against the wall again.

'I'll go backwards with you. I need to find something here to trade at The Head Posts to recover Levin. I have no clue what your fucking problem is with that. This place is part of the many sections and regions which make up a place called _Hell. _It's not meant to be nice. You're not meant to like it! You know I like the taste of certain sorts of flesh. I am not human, Spencer. Have never been, will never be, don't want to be. It's not what I damned well am... Eating what was roasting back there is no different to you eating roast pork. Get over your damned self and remember who you are. Just a walking breathing turd who I need so I can feel grass between my toes and not turn into a lump of rock. You caused this... this is the result. Live with it. Levin's never hurt you. It was a fucking prank!'

'He cut my throat!'

'Oh... besides that... nothing.'

'He killed me for money!' Spencer exclaimed. 'And you expect me to be happy that you're going to rescue him from some post? Why would I be? Explain that! I'm glad he's here. Glad! I don't want to be part of rescuing him.'

'Well – there lies the problem, you see? Because I do want to... and you will do what I tell you because if you don't... well I could live here for an eternity, I don't think you could. Get a move on and don't tarry! I'm tired of having to drag you along like a manged cur.' Floyd prodded Spencer hard in the chest. He would rather have been doing this alone. Leave his Babes unattended for one moment and he'd be standing behind the pretty coloured stalls with chains around his ankles. He'd not imagine someone would cook him up. Too skinny. He gabbed the back of Spencer's belt and pushed him forwards through the smelly and foul crowd of things which didn't all appear to be human.

Floyd was aware that he was getting stared at. He would have thought that it was his stunning good looks and charisma which was drawing the attention, but after the bloke back at the office had called him by name and said about some light... Floyd was beginning to feel like he had a neon notice pinned to his arse glowing with the word ISGAR. Or perhaps just Cursed Filth of Light... that would do it.

He stopped, pulled Spencer in close and patted him on the arm. 'Don't move away. Just stand there and suck it up.'

Whatever that meant caused Spencer to frown and twiddle his fingers.

'I need one. Healthy... male or female.' Floyd was telling the man the other side of the market stall. 'Not too young, not so old it'll die before I get there.' He flashed his gold coin. 'And some parts, wrapped and bagged.' He pointed towards a man in rags standing near the back of the half dozen people this trader had on offer. 'I'll have the bald one at the back.' Again he flashed the coin... 'and some lower limbs. I've a way to walk. I don't want anything already on the turn and I don't want something too heavy.'

Spencer threw up on the cobbles. No one noticed. It was just another bit of stinking mess to add to the rest of it.

As Floyd sniffed the things he'd just purchased... lumps of meat and what looked to be a man with not many teeth – he, Floyd considered Spencer's reaction to everything. He took a whole ten seconds with this consideration and decided that his Babe was just over-reacting to things he was sure he'd prepared him for. That was the whole reason of the trailer. Preparation for a hellish existence and it seemed the those long hours of prep had not worked too well. Spencer was looking very green around his gills and dribbling puke out of his nose and from between his lips. That though was just something they'd both have to get used to. Spencer had no stomach for this sort of thing and reminding him, gently of course, that he had numerous times eaten things he'd not want to, or even be arrested and locked up for a life time for doing, well that was not going to get anything from his greatest and wonderful love, except a tantrum.

Floyd tied the brown cloth bag to his belt, wound the chain the tooth deprived man was connected to around his wrist and told Spencer to wipe the muck off his face. They had a job to do here and they didn't have time to stand around looking like – well, Floyd had no words to describe how sick and ugly Spencer was looking right now. The thought that there was snot mixed with that puke was turning his own stomach as much as Spencer's obviously was.

They walked onwards. The man in chains not speaking and Floyd not in any hurry to get to know him and Spencer in a deep dark mood which Floyd knew would be healed if he could just give him a kiss on the cock and say all was going to be just great. They were making progress. They knew where Sam was! They were on their way.

Levin seemed to be a sticking point here and though Floyd felt, at least on the surface of his soul, at he was not in any ways responsible for Levin and he had no idea why he was here or how he died and it was not his problem, he couldn't get out of his mind how sweet he was, what a lovely person he'd been... how easy to manipulate and get under his thumb, and a pretty young man at his side was never anything to complain about.

Spencer was thirsty.

Not hungry.

He'd made that abundantly clear.

But he was thirsty, tired and needed to get out of this place that was clogging up his nose and making his stomach heave.

Such a fuss! Such a baby.

There were many teats to suckle on... Floyd made that suggestion and it just brought on a nasty look on Spencer's face. That in a way was annoying. Free drink! And he turns it down, however it gave Floyd the comfort that boobies were not his thing. Sam would have jumped at the chance.

Spencer shouldn't be feeling hungry or thirsty or tired! You didn't get those feelings when you were as dead and gone as Spencer was, which gave Floyd a slight bit of hope that he also wasn't as dead and forever lost either. Neither of them had been finished off as they should have been. Floyd cheated Spencer and Rossi in turn had cheated him. So there was hope.

Only that hope would mean being sent back to that confining and suffocating life up-top and that was a place Floyd had no wish to return to. It was a life he had no want to repeat. It made him feel kind of ill thinking about having to go back and do it all again, properly.

'When we're out of here, can we find a place to get a drink?' Spencer asked.

'Out of here?' Floyd had asked back. What a question. Did the fool have no idea. He nodded. Gave Spencer the hope that at the end of the market would be a nice drinking establishment with clean cups and bottled water – cheese sandwiches and jazz or maybe light classical music playing in the smoky background. Floyd didn't want to have to tell Spencer that this was Hell... did he have to keep reminding him? Did he not yet realise that this was maybe as good as it was going to get.

'If it comes to it...' Floyd said, '…if we can't get hold of Sam or if it's too late, we'll return here and to the passages. We could make a life of sorts here.'

Spencer stepped over a thing which might have been a turd and might have been a big steaming slug and then turned slowly to look at Floyd in the face. He glanced at the empty eyed man behind him and then back to Floyd.

'Make a life here? I would sooner go back and turn to rock.'

'Once you get used to it. Once you understand the rules. It's not so bad. You could make a living here. You've got all the skills.'

This was perhaps the wrong thing to say. Spencer turned away again and with a sound which Floyd thought was a sob, Spencer walked onwards. A bit faster now with Floyd still holding onto the belt.

A courtyard of sorts. Tall never ending walls around them, closing in, leaning forwards towards them. The light here came from flickering strip lighting, which buzzed and made the shadows dance. There was a fountain in the middle. Water flowing. People sitting around talking, snarling, fighting... fucking. Very few children. This was something Spencer had pointed out and Floyd had told him that the likelihood of a child being in possession of true evil... of consciously doing something which really deserved for them to be here was very rare and those that did make it this far were snatched up by the pimps and put to good use. Floyd told him that there were very many types here who would kill to get their hands, and other parts, on a child. It was a popular pastime. He nearly said that Sam had to be careful in places like this and then decided to leave that bit of information out, as Spencer would then go off on one of his lectures and then ask once more if Floyd liked to dabble in children... and once again he'd have to deny it.

Because that was truth.

And telling truths was sometimes harder to do that a man would think!

It was a chance for Spencer to have a drink though. Floyd stood with his man chained to his arm and watched Spencer cup his hands into warm water and drink... it would probably make him sick again, but who was Floyd to advise against such activities. As he waited he pulled out a cheroot, his lighter and had a quick smoke. The man in chains stood, saying nothing. Floyd wondered if he'd had his tongue removed. He didn't ask. Didn't want to see a ragged bit of meat inside the man's mouth. Had no desire to get to know who he was or why he was here. It was just something to trade with. Something to get Levin off the Head Posts and back maybe somewhere safer.

Though...

Why bother?

He watched as Spencer washed his face, hands, the back of his neck... ran wet fingers through his hair... He would do him here, over the fountain... slowly drowning him... letting his catch a breath... pushing his face back under the water, feel him struggle and try to escape, but only half heartedly. Spence would be loving every moment.

And for that reason, Floyd didn't. Why give him some pleasure when none was deserved. Likely not deserved by either of them. And Floyd was just not in the mood for that sort of game. He turned and looked at a couple buttock dancing against the wall... well no... not quite that. Two men enjoying the delights of each other. Neither one trying to escape. They were both loving it.

Again looking at Spencer who was now standing upright and looking back at him. Huge hazel eyes and a damp and clean face. Water was dripping off the front of his hair which was a ragged mess of wiggles and kinks... a bit like Spencer himself... all wiggles and kinks. Floyd twitched a smile. A bit of reassurance at Spencer. Let him think this was going to work out well, that they were following a plan. They'd get Sam, go back... do what was needed and cross.

'Feeling better?' Floyd asked, gripping a hold of the belt again. 'We should go. This isn't a place to sit and have a picnic.'

'I need you to know that I'm against what you are doing. Selling people... the stuff you have in your bag. It's not what I came down here for. I'm not happy about how this is turning out. Can I possibly persuade you, in any way, to leave Levin for now. Come back for him another time?'

'You can try.' Floyd jangled the chains. 'But I'm not easily persuaded by you. It's more that you do what I tell you, not the other way around. We must leave.'

A hand brushed the front of Floyd's jeans. Another rested on his hip. 'Let me try.'

'Not now, Babes. Not here.' He pushed the needy and greedy hands away. Oh Floyd knew that Spencer found him irresistible. It was not his darling's fault. But here was not the time. Later. Later when he had off loaded the goods and recovered the first piece of the puzzle.

If needs be, if Levin didn't come up to standard and if it was not too much of a wrench to do it, he'd trade Levin for Sam. A willing companion was far better than one tethered. He'd not tell Spencer this. Floyd wanted to see how the game played out first. They might even get to like each other. Might even play along nicely... be something fun to watch... two tall men, with long, beautiful limbs, all tangled together in a heaving sexual sweat. Floyd thought that was a very pretty picture.

A pair of huge wrought iron gates now blocked their way. There was a fancy sign on them, telling them that they were leaving Market Town and going to The Head Posts. Floyd could read it easily and so read it to Spencer who pulled a face and said nothing but a mumble under his breath. How long was he going to sulk for? Telling him it had to be done. That they had to fetch Levin only brought on demanding questions as to why and a stammering of words which Floyd translated as Spencer saying that he couldn't believe that Floyd was doing this. At this point Floyd had to drag his goods harder. The man didn't want to enter this place. Maybe he knew of it and had an idea that this was going to be his new home. There was even a cry of something, dismay or fear, but Floyd wasn't someone to be taken in by emotional outbursts... except maybe sometimes when it was Spencer... which annoyed him just to think about and make his face feel hot with some sort of feelings of his own, though understanding what those feelings were was a far more complex procedure and one which Floyd had no time to figure out now.

The gates grated, squeaked and rattled shut behind them. No way back. When they turned to look, the market which had been just the other side had disappeared into a deep blackness.

At least now Spencer wouldn't be able to complain about feeling shut in and trapped. There was nothing much here. No towering walls which threatened to fall and crush. No sneaky little side passages for something to leap out. Nothing but a heaving and awesome nothing; nothing if you discounted the double like of stone posts and the people tied to them. Nothing if you didn't include the thing with six legs and a head like a locust, walking slowly towards them.

It had wings.

They unfurled and flapped, but the creature who stood at its shoulders at about eight foot, didn't take off or even really look all that hungry.

Spencer baulked. Was shoved forwards a step before he ripped away from Floyd and looked for a moment there that he was going to run back the way they'd just come, even though the way back was now locked.

'No going back.' Floyd tugged at the back of Spencer's sweater-vest. 'Haven't I always said to never go back. No good comes of it. Not ever. Do business. Move on. Never return. We have business here, Babes. Once done we can bugger off and I can surprise you with the next bit of delightful scenery. At least there's nothing to bang your head on here. You're safe. You're with me.'

'With you?' The voice came from behind Floyd, from the creature who had been coming in their direction. 'What does such filth as you want with us?'

Filth. Always the filth! He was reviled even in hell. What a life! What a death. He'd never considered himself filth. Where had this new found phrase come from? Who had been spreading slander? He pulled his offering forwards.

'Trade. One of yours for one of mine – this one of mine. Purchased for this purpose. A special gift for a special person. He's not diseased. He's healthy. He's taller than me... almost. What more could a creature such as you possibly want! Here...' Pulling the man forwards and wrapping the chain around and around his wrist. 'A trade.'

'Trade? Why? Why would I trade with you? What have I got that's so precious to you?'

'One of the posts. I need a prisoner freed in exchange for this nice fresh and healthy one.' Floyd put on his best smile, which today didn't seem to cause alarm. More alarm was caused when the thing opened its maw and snapped it together again in a fine show of how easy it would be to bite off their heads and not have to exchange bugger all.

'A particular one?'

'Indeed. Levin.'

'Levin? The Blond? Why so special? What's he to you? He's just a dead thing like the one you've already got there.' One of the legs which ended in a claw, lifted and pointed at Spencer.

'Ah, yes, but I sort of collect them. It's a hobby. I collect pretty things to keep around me. It hides my own depravity and filth, you see. It's a shield and Levin shouldn't be here.'

'Suicide.' The thing laughs. 'Slit his own wrists. Poor soul.'

Spencer moved... he moved forwards and for a ghastly moment Floyd thought he was going to cheer, but he just stood still again, perhaps realising that running away was not going to work. Not here.

'Calm, Babes... calm.' Floyd pulled him back again. It was getting awkward with a chain around one wrist and having to hold onto Spencer with the other.

The posts were of varying heights but none much over two foot tall. The people – because that's what they were, deads like Spencer, not demons or fallen angels, but all dead souls waiting another and final death. They were all tied much the same, on their knees, leaning backwards, the back of their heads resting on the black stone post. Hands were tied with ropes, feet were bound and pulled back. It really didn't look at all comfortable. They all seemed to be awake, which was quite disturbing, eyes open staring upwards at nothing. At least they all knew that the longest they'd stay here was five years. That was, Floyd supposed, some kind of mercy for them. Some were dressed, some not, some were wearing rags and yet others wee overly dressed in fancy lace and brocades with ivory buttons and ribbons. They were at least, for Spencer's sake, adults. Male and female. Young and old. Beautiful and ugly. All of them here knowing that soon it would be over and they would die... well not die so much, Floyd thought, but be cast down to the fire pits where hell devoured everything eventually, good, bad... naughty, misunderstood, evil... saintly and angelic. Everything ended up in the same place, to be reshaped, remastered and reborn. These poor sods were at least partly on their way there.

Floyd had been told that Levin was about half way down on the left. As there were six hundred souls here, equally divided on each side, it was not too difficult to locate who he was looking for. It was harder to force Spencer to keep walking and to drag the trade behind him.

Had Floyd not been told, had Spencer not been listening and so also knew the location, then they might have walked right by Levin. Spencer may well have walked right by him even knowing where he was being held. It no longer looked like the pretty blond slut. It was a broken and bruised, hacked at and brutal creature laying there, chest heaving. He was wearing what looked like knee length, red silk pyjama bottoms and nothing much else. Deep gashes ran down his arms which were wrenched back causing black bruises to form on his shoulders. Pale blue eyes stared unblinkingly upwards. His hair was long, loose and tangled.

'It would be more of a mercy to kill him.' Floyd spoke with a deep sadness. This was not he man he thought he was going to rescue. This person was already beyond help.

'Floyd...' Spencer muttered. Maybe wanting to agree, perhaps wanting to beg for the broken person whose throat was so on display.

'You would rather I left him here like this?' Floyd asked Spencer. 'You think he deserves this? I mean really? You can live with this – if you ever get to live again – you can sleep and know you left someone to die like this?'

'No... no... Floyd... we can't take him with us.'

'We will. That's what I'm here for.'

'We are here for Sam!' Spencer now shouted... his voice muffled by the darkness. The insect like creature coming closer now, listening to what they were going to do next.

'I know... I know! Yet... I could trade you for him, take him back up-top and be back within the week.'

'And I could trade you. I think you're worth more than I am with your shining lights and strange names. I think you're worth a lot more than me, but would I? No... because that's not what people do to each other and no... OK... you're going to tell me you're not human, fine, but you have that appearance and that's how I see you and I'd not leave you somewhere like this... even though... even _though _I know you'd happily do it to me. That's what makes us different Floyd. I have some sort of feeling towards you, whereas you have nothing, never have and never will show any sort of emotional tie towards me.'

'Right. Cut him down. I'm taking him. You have this.' Floyd pushed the trade towards the creature. 'My lover here is quite right. I'm a cold and emotionless bastard. And for that reason I'll not give Levin the comfort of a quick death.'

That obviously wasn't what Spencer had meant. He'd just made things all that much worse now. Floyd looked on with rapt wonder as the thing snapped the ropes and pulled Levin from his place. He fell into a silent lump on the floor, eyes were still open. Now the trade was forced to his knees and pushed back, tied and left to scream for a while. Whilst that was going on Floyd was telling Spencer that he would help him carry their new found friend and Spencer was telling Floyd that he'd rather not – thank you and all that, but no... Spencer was not going to lift one finger to assist the person who had killed him. No... no no and no again.

Spencer picked up the feet. Floyd carried the head end and they walked, stumbling, Spencer still claiming that he'd not help, yet there he was doing exactly that. How did Floyd always manage to get his own way? Would Levin live until they reached the next area? How would Floyd heal him... because Spencer knew of one particular way that Floyd loved to heal and Spencer wasn't going to sit around and watch Floyd masturbate into Levin.

No he'd not do that.

Never would do that.


	16. SAM

Chapter Sixteen.

**SAM:** _ A man that causes uncontrollable sexual desire in attractive boys and girls. Acronym for Super at Masturbation. _

I'll tell you this bit myself because no one could possibly put the horror of this in real words, so just meld your mind to mine and feel that pain and terror.

Because that's what it is.

It's simple terror.

I was scared half out of my pants, and seems totally out of my pants at one point, because I just knew people or things were doing something to me. What for? No idea, but there doesn't have to be reason does there? Doesn't have to make any fucking sense!

Rossi swore it wasn't him or his crew and for a while I wasn't sure to believe him or not and then Floyd found me and took me somewhere safe which was so _un_safe that I ended up jumping out of a window just to get away again... falling into the loving arms of flying things, like giant bats, which ripped me limb from bloody limb.

Imagine feeling your legs and arms being ripped off? Think about how much that would hurt and then imagine it again only this time someone is holding up your intestines to see... think of that! It's not fun. It's not nice and it makes a person scream and then when they've stopped screaming they just start all over again!

I don't know where I was at first. I had my eyes closed tight and I could only hear a buzzing in my ears like a thousand bees had lodged in my brain. I didn't even know if I had arms and legs or if my insides were still inside of me.

I do know I had stopped screaming for a while. Only because I think they might have cut my head off if I'd carried on.

It was hot. So fucking hot that I could smell burning hair.

And yes... I was frightened. I was beside myself with fear. What had I done? Why hadn't I trusted Floyd or believed him? Why didn't I just stay in that fucking house and let him sort it out? But he was going to do Spencer in! He was going to finally do that and I wanted to and I wanted to watch and I couldn't watch and I wanted to stop him and join in and tell Floyd to do it himself and tell Floyd I'd do it. HANG HIM then TAKE HIS HEAD! I was shouting this, but it was internal because I wasn't sure about anything then. Not a thing... not even my own fates.

So yes, I kept my eyes shut and I pissed myself and I cried a bit...

OK... I cried a lot. I begged for titties... I wanted cock. I wanted drugs and coffee and someone to do something, anything that I could cling hold of and claim it was love. Because that's all I've ever really wanted is love. Someone I don't have to share. I thought Hotch would love me but he had Jack and he just shoved me aside because I was a problem. I thought Rossi would love me but he didn't. He didn't hate me, but he didn't love me either.

I thought that someone out there. Just one person, one day, might see me and think I was worth loving, but no. It's never happened and never will happen and that's why I'll always hate everyone because they all hate me...

Would rather me dead than give me a fucking break and let me show that I can be a good person. I just need a chance you see? Just give me a damned chance and I'll show you that I won't be what you all think I am if you'd just fucking love me!

I know some sort of trading went on. I didn't listen to what they were saying because right then I was feeling way too sorry for myself to want to hear what was going to happen to me. Maybe I might have spoke up if I'd actually paid attention to my own fate.

That's what happens though.

I just don't listen and I ignore what's going on around me, because in the end it is fate and nothing you do can change it. For sure you can bargain and plead, but it will change nothing in the end. All destiny is written down and there's nothing you can do to change that. If I was meant to plead and beg and pay attention then I would have, but I know that either I will be freed or I will be taken and no amount of my whining and acting like a coward is going to change anything. So I laid there and loved myself because that's all I'd ever get and that's what my fate is. There's no need to be nice to people. No point in doing good things and not following your own course because that's not how life works. At least not for me.

I was caged. A metal cage. I could feel the heat coming from the bars that dug into my back. I laid, now knowing I had arms and legs, on my back with my legs curled up and hugging my knees and the metal bars dug into my back like I was on a barbecue being slow roasted for someone's dinner and for all I knew that's exactly what was happening to me. Again... what's the point in protesting and screaming to be let go, because I'd not be. I could make things awkward for them, but the final outcome would be the same and all I could do was accept that.

When I'm finally pulled from my cage and there's that's tiny split second of hope that I could run away, I'm pulled back out of my dreams and shoved into a chair which I'm then tied to. Still with my eyes closed. Refusal to accept the situation seems the way to go.

There are muttering voices and sniggering in the background and the scraping of something being dragged in my direction. It was like metal on stone. A table or chair maybe? So I open an eye and have a quick look.

For holy shit... I've fallen into the worst hands I could ever have dreamed.

I'd sort of thought I was going to be used as some sort of sex object, which I could have got over and taken for a bit of like, if not love. But that face looking at me isn't after that, because I know that face and I know that face is going to hurt me. Or at least the things the person who owns that face is going to hurt the fuck out of me and now that terror sort of increases and becomes something that welds me into place and stops me from taking a breath and makes my bladder empty and it is only immense mastery of my arse that I stop myself from shitting myself too. I know I drooled slightly and I know I've tears running down my face and they're things I would have stopped too, but crying comes so easily that when it's real there's no stopping it. My nose bubbles with snot and finally I take a hitching breath and let out a howl of how unfair my life is and then I drop into an adrenaline pumping begging session, even though I know it'll make absolutely no difference at all, because this thing in front of me is going to cause me pain... and pain is one of those things I hate unless I'm high and I'm certainly not that right now.

'Dirty little fuck.'

That's what I'm called...

'Ash...' I call him that because that's who it is. 'We can talk about this.' And my voice comes out as a pathetic whine. I know it does and can't stop it.

Ash stands there with his flushed face and pointy nose and those squiggles of long yellow hair and he reminds me of a boiled beef and noodle dish I once had when I was desperate.

'We are The Children of Pluto.' He then announces as though that's meant to mean something and it doesn't so I just try a smile out on him in the hopes he'll see how innocent and pretty I am and won't boil my brains like I did to him.

'I had a job to do and you stopped me.' He snarls... spitting and moving from foot to foot and wriggling in the chair like he's about to explode and I wonder if that's why he's so red in the face or if he's just naturally ugly.

'I did too.' I mutter back at him but he's not interested in my reasons any more than I'm interested in his.

'Now I've got to prove myself. Show the boss that I'm not the failure he thinks I am.'

I try a smile again. I then say... 'But I didn't mean to kill you, Ash, I just wanted to slow you down a bit and I couldn't help it because I had someone shouting at me and telling me what I had to do and you could let me go and I'll leave and never have …. you'll never have to see me again and please don't hurt me, please Ash, I'm only a kid and I don't want to be maimed and hurt and I was just following orders and what could I do? I had to do it and it's not my fault... what are you going to do with that spike? Ash? Listen to me... you don't have to do this. I'll do whatever it is you want. What is it you're after... don't! Don't hurt me! Ash... listen... just tell me what you want and I'll help. I'll help you... NO!'

And I don't know how long I was not awake for.

The room I'm in is dark. A low ceiling with a mix of electric lights, a bulb hangs from a cord in the middle of the room, but there's candles too... and I've been stabbed by that cunt of a fucktard, Ash and my lap is full of blood and there's a hole in my stomach... I'm not going to say much more than to let you know it hurt like a bitch! I took careful breaths. There were flies swooping around my head and buzzing on my lap. The sound reminds me of the noise I heard in my head before and I wonder if it was an omen. If it was or not I can now claim it was. The spike has been removed and it's laying on the floor by my feet. Ash is sitting on a metal chair facing me. When I blink at him, he blinks back. He's like a vile insect himself. I'm surprised he's not buzzing about on my lap too.

'Now you know that I mean business, I'm going to being asking you stuff and you're going to answer because the next thing I do will be to remove your balls and we all know how much you'd miss them.'

I'd miss them. I'd miss them a lot. I don't want to have them chopped off... I'd do anything not to have that happen. Anything. Whatever he asks I will do. There can't possibly be anything that he can ask for that is worth more than that! I'd even give up my eyes... my... well not my cock or tongue... actually not my legs either, but there's stuff I would give up. Like he could shave my head because though I'd look like a cunt with no hair, I could grow it back or wear a wig or get awesome tattoos... so yeah... I'll offer my hair.

'We are tracking someone.' Ash says. He wipes at his mouth. It's a small wet mouth. Had I noticed how wet it is before?

'Ah.' I say... and just saying that hurts, because that's truth... I told you, I said that it didn't matter what I'd say or do, then end result is what is written. Nothing can change the path of the word or the gods unless you kill the god who has the pen and book and I'm not going to do that because killing a god is a bit beyond me... especially as I'm tied to a chair which seems to be nailed to the floor.

'And that someone is tracking you! So it's going to make our task so much easier.' He smiles and his teeth snap together. 'And once he's here, we're going to make that special call and he'll be gone. Forever gone and so you're going to help out and call him. Give him a nice clear signal and we'll have him and his whore and I'll be free and you'll be dinner. How does that sound?'

It sounds like a rotten plan to me, but better than losing my balls. 'Who are you tracking?' Sounds like I've got a lump of gob in my throat and so I cough... and yeah, I had a lump of gob, so I spit it out onto the bloody lap I've now got and as I look down at it I think how much bloodier that will be if I don't do what they ask.

'Isgar.'

It's just one word and the one, very one word I didn't want to hear. He's not tracking me anyway, he's fine. He's up-top some place starting a happy life again with Levin. Why the hell would he be tracking me? I start crying again. Not because I need to but because I can and it wastes time and gives me a chance to think what I'm going to say. I can't lead Floyd here. Nothing – not even castration is going to let me do that. Floyd is the only person who has ever loved me in any sort of way and even that has been very lacking and intermittent, but he's the closest I've ever come to feeling that someone likes me... I'm not going to put out a signal for him to follow and as I think that... as that very thought comes into my head I realise I've been sending out a whopping great distress signal since I left Rossi and got on the bus. I've been screaming in my head for Floyd to find me all that time and I'm still doing it now! It's how they followed me. How they caught me and why I'm here now. They just homed in on my distress.

I tap my fingers on the arm of the chair my arms are tied to. I close down all communications. I shut it down absolutely. Nothing... not a spark is going to leave me. I'd never betray Floyd like that. Not in a million years. I'd do things to annoy him and I'd tell him I hate him and I'd run from him and disobey him and maybe even want to hurt him real bad, but this? Draw him down to here? No. Not going to do it.

Ash stands. Looks down at me, down that red nose. The skin is peeling off the end. Looks like he had a big zit there and now the skin is dying. Hope the rest of him follows.

Vile ugly bastard.

He can do what he wants. I won't do what he wants in return.

Never!

So when they untie me and I flail with my arms and try to get hold of him and sink my fingers into his eyes and my knee into his balls... when I'm doing that and he's just laughing, others pull me back away and smack me around the head and Ash is shouting that he'll have my balls if I don't turn the signal back on again! And I'm howling back at him that he can do what he fucking wants to me, I'd never betray Floyd. Not for anything.

And I'm on a metal table and again I'm strapped down and needles are put into my arms to stop me for being able to struggle. It paralyses me and though I can't move or scream or do much but twitch my eyes, I can feel everything. Everything.

I can't even tell them that I've changed my mind. They don't give me the chance to do that. They pull my jeans off me and throw them across the room and my feet are pushed up and my knees apart and I feel them grabbing my genitals and I can feel them cutting, and pulling and cutting... and why haven't I passed out? Why am I still conscious? What the fuck drug have they given me that I can scream only in my head and I can cry real big tears and choke on my own sorrow and feel them cutting away my balls and sewing me back together again?

They hold something up for me to see, but my eyes won't focus on it and I think that's a very good thing. I don't want to see it.

I just hope that Floyd is happy with the sacrifice I've just made for him.

If that's not undying love for him, then what is?

No one has loved him like I do.

Not even Spencer can put a claim like that.

Floyd can do what he wants to me, but I'll for always love him.

I can't breathe.

I'm laying on my side somewhere itchy. My hands are tied behind my back and I'm in agony. I've been crying again and my nose is blocked. When I turn my head I can just about see that I'm laying on a straw pallet of some kind. Like a baby saviour laying in the manger... because that's what I am... laying in straw, de-manned and a saviour... my personal one and Floyd's.

I take along breath and hold it, letting it out slowly.

My nose itches. I sneeze... it makes things worse and the tears come again, hot and sticky mess. That's what I am. I want to turn and lay on my back but when I go to move a hand on my shoulder stops me.

'I wouldn't.' It's not Ash. I don't know who it is. I don't want to look. I don't want anything. I want to die. I want to be dead.

'Why not.' I whine, moan... whimper... whatever you want to call it. I have every fucking right (!) to feel sorry for myself. I will. I will cry for myself because no other fucker will.

'Because you'll pull the stitches and start to bleed again.'

Like it matters if I bleed to death now. Really what does it matter? They're going to kill me anyway.

Whine, bitch, moan... whimper... bitch whine. And some sobbing and crying and choking on shit coming from inside my lungs.

'I don't care.' I say to the person I've not looked at yet.

'You'll care when Ash finds out and he cuts another part off.' I'm told

So I stay on my side. Seems like a fair idea anyway. I didn't really want to move.

It's got nothing to do with the threat of losing my cock as well... and the thought filters through my confused head that he might have taken that too. I can't feel much but searing pain and I couldn't see what he showed me.

'Did he take my prick?' I have to ask.

'No... do you want him to?' Something rubs against my lip... it's a drinking straw. 'Drink.' He tells me. Yes, castrate me, but for the love of the gods, don't let me get dehydrated. 'And whilst you're at it, turn the signal back on. I've better things to do with myself than look after weaklings like you.'

A weakling. That's what he calls me. But would a weakling do what I've just done to protect someone else? No they'd not.

But a cunning plan sort of makes its way into my head. A plan which will mean I'll die, but I'll die a hero and all heroes have souls and go to paradise and as that's my main goal, that's what I shall do.

You might want to take time to let the horror of what happened to me sink in a bit.

You could sit and have a drink of coffee or wine, or water... or nothing if you don't want, but just think about how much I must adore – even secretly – that fallen angel who likes to be called Floyd for some odd reason. I always thought his name sounded like something you'd hoik up out of your nose with a long fingernail. A big juicy floyd... yum.

I would spend my eternity with him. Really I would. I don't understand why he's here. Does he love me back as much as I love him? He must do! He must or he'd not be here.

I'm left to think about how much I adore him. They leave me until the bleeding has stopped, but not long enough for it to have stopped hurting. A long loved pair of friends... loyal to their end. I'm pulled off the bed – you may call it that as it's what it was – and dragged across the room. They're laughing. They think it fucking hysterical that I can't walk. My legs don't want to carry me. They want to fold up and let me go to sleep. They have no intention of not letting me down now. So with wibbly legs and with a groin that feels as though, well feels like I've just had my balls cut off, can't think of another description for the agony, I'm returned to the chair where Ash is sitting eating something which smells of a bit of cooked me and onions.

I would puke. But let him enjoy it. It's the last bit of fun he's going to get out of me. He chews with his mouth open and I can see little bits of me between his teeth and being moved around his ugly mouth with his tongue. It's sort of distressing. He's ruined it. Should have cooked it with garlic fried it in olive oil. But it's too late now and I'm not going to tell him because he might cut something else off and fry it up for breakfast.

'You know what you need to do.' Ash actually spits bits of me into my face as he talks. Can you think of anything much more horrific than that? It's meant to revolt and upset me and I'll let him think it has... so I let out tears and I blub for him and tell him I'm sorry and please don't cut anything else off... because... because I'll open the signal again. I'll log back on. I'll let him know where I am. I'll do that. I will.

Honestly!

I fucking will!

Why does no one believe me?

They just laugh. Tell me I can't have back that which is taken... not now... not ever. What's done in hell is for a hellish and dastardly reason... permanent. And yes I know that. I know very well. But they carry on... and they start with the lies and the manipulating. They tell me that Floyd could cure me and grow me a new pair... only Floyd could do that. I know that's a lie. I know he can't. I know I'll never be whole again.

For fuck's sake. My lower lip wobbles.

I'm like a damned child sometimes.

I need to man up and do what they ask.

Sort of.

'OK.' I tell them. 'I'll send a signal. I'll let him know where I am... But he'll not come for me.'

'Well you better hope he does, because if not, we'll eat you, bit by juicy bit.'

That's seems like a good and valid reason. I lick my lips, tap my fingers on the arm of the chair and send out such a blast of a signal that even if he's hibernating he'll hear it.

'_Floyd – stay away. It's a trap. Leave me. Stay back. Go home. They're going to kill me and then you. Stay away. You can't help me_.'

And then I shut down again. I don't even wait for a reply. I know it was received. I felt a questioning reply forming, but I didn't want to hear it. It was enough that he heard me. Now if he's anything of a man, of an angel... anything of what he thinks he is, he'll come here anyway. I just couldn't let him come and not know. He would have destroyed me himself had I done that. Whatever way you want to look at this... I'm going to die in terrible agony.

Starting now.

I feel the first crack of a fist in my face and my head rocks to the side... then a hand rests on my stomach and fingers slide into the hole they made there and I can feel them... and yes... I screamed. But they're toying with me. I know that much. They'll not kill me just yet. They'll want to try to persuade me to lure Floyd in again first.

An X shaped frame.

I'd tied to it... legs apart and I felt the stitches tear and I've got this clout on and it's soaked in blood now.

There's maggots crawling around the wound on my stomach. It's not healing. It stinks of rot. Ash stuck his fingers in there and the pain was unimaginable and I did then, finally disgrace myself and my bowels opened. But I'm washed down and hanging now. My feet are broken. They smashed them with a mallet. I've a little finger missing off my right hand. They've broken my teeth, my nose, my lips are split, my jaw is broken... my left leg was hit with an iron bar until the bone broke and pierced through the flesh, but I've not opened that signal. I never will.

They can do what they want but I'll never give in to them.

What would be the point now?

I'll never be what I was.

My nose is clogged with blood.

There's something wrong with my back... maybe I've just got pulled muscles... perhaps it's more, but my legs tingle constantly... and twitch like someone is passing a current through me.

I know I've had some seizures too.

I've come round to see them standing there staring at me, saying that they thought that was it... that I was dead... but dying yes... they're sure of that. I'll not last much longer.

They give me drugs to keep me awake.

They give me stuff to heal the cuts... but I can smell the rot.

I know there's nothing now.

I know I'm going to die and Floyd never came. He never arrived and rescued me. He isn't going to be the one to finish me off... it's going to be Ash.

And out of all of this, that's what hurts the most.


	17. ABANDON

Chapter Seventeen.

**ABANDON:** _To yield oneself without restrain or moderation; give oneself over to natural impulses, usually without self-control._

Spencer's anger over this situation had burst to the front of his mind again. The rage he was feeling as he held Levin's ankles was so deep and consuming that he didn't think that his mind would ever be right again. He felt the fall. A sudden lurching in his stomach as though an elevator had dropped a thousand storeys and came crashing to a fatal end at the bottom.

He was crushed inside. He could feel his whole body racked and broken. His brain was taken up totally with the disloyalty of Floyd of the way he didn't seem to care about his feelings. The way Floyd had from the very start destroyed everything he had. It was even Floyd who nagged him into having his mother locked away – and yes it had been the right decision and one Spencer couldn't have made on his own, but right now, as he clutched Levin's dirty ankles he could think of nothing Floyd had given him except a pair of socks and a Christmas sweater.

He was grinding his teeth. Digging his fingers into Levin's flesh with all the spite he could muster. This murderous slut! This thing which had killed him for a bit of money in his pocket... and look how far that got him! To here... to die alone... and then be trapped here! Where he deserved to be trapped and be lost forever! At least that would have given Spencer some sort of comfort, but no! Floyd wouldn't even permit that!

It wasn't until Spencer actually tripped over Levin who seemed to suddenly be on the ground, that Spencer realised that Floyd had let go and was on his knees, clutching his head and swearing rather loudly. Swearing with a passion which Spencer found less curious than maybe he should have. He let go of the one ankle he was still gripping and stepping over a floppy pale arm with rips up the inside, he knelt down next to Floyd. Had he finally realised what an arsehole he was being?

'Floyd?' He raised a hand as though to touch a shoulder and dropped it again. Floyd was making odd noises. His nose was bleeding and he was rocking back and forth whining words which Spencer didn't understand.

'Floyd?' He tried again. 'What's going on. I don't want to stay here. We must keep moving.' Now his time to nag.

'Sam.' Floyd moaned in reply and then as suddenly as he'd gone down he was up on his feet again, swiping at the blood dripping over his top lip and swinging around to look at Spencer. 'He's in trouble.'

Well that was really no shock. Floyd had been warned that Sam was going to be hurt. 'And?' Spencer managed to say with dripping sympathy.

'And he's told me to stay away.'

Spencer's eyebrows twitched. He also got to his feet. Hard cobbles had made dents in his knees and he rubbed at them quickly to stop his bad knee from freezing up. This was a bit of good news. Maybe.

'But we've come down here to get him. You can't cross over without him. You can't stay away.' Spencer explained slowly as though talking to a moron, which a lot of the time he thought Floyd was. 'We have to get him and how did he tell you? He sent you a message? You've been in contact with him all this time? You knew where he was but still went to the trouble of acting out some sort of farce back there in that room? What's going on?'

It was a lot of questions and they all needed to be answered before he was prepared to carry on. It had never occurred to him that Floyd was in contact with Sam! Why not? Why had that not crossed his mind until actually having this shoved in his face now?

'He's been sending a looped message for a long time. It's how I knew he was close. It was nothing I could respond to. He wasn't receiving. Just sending. I did once try to break through but it was such a blast of a signal that even I couldn't bypass it. Now... down here it changed slightly. I could hear his distress call but couldn't tune into him. But he's changed the message. Sent it out on all frequencies. Telling me not to come to him. It's a trap. And now he's closed down. Shut down. I can't send to him and he's not sending out. It's as though he's dead. I can't feel him.'

Spencer looked down at Levin and then back to Floyd who was marching in a circle, pushing fingers through his hair. Was that panic? Surely not?

'Dead?' Spencer managed to ask. 'Are you sure?'

'Of course I'm not sure! I'm not saying he is dead. I'm saying it's as though he is. You wouldn't understand. You don't know what it's like to have this going on in your head. It's like the cord which binds us has snapped. He was in pain. Horrific pain. Now that's a good reason to stop the contact as he is of my flesh, I can feel a bit of that too... but... Damn... fucking fuck!'

Floyd took out his anger on Levin who was laying like a fleshy white streak on the cobbles. He kicked him in the ribs and was about to stamp on his head when Spencer stopped him.

'Why rescue him just to do that? If any one is going to kill him...'

'You? You want the job? Go ahead.'

Floyd was impossible when in one of these moods. Sam had flipped on Floyd's self destruct button and there were only two people he could take that out on and Spencer didn't intend to be Floyd's punch-bag.

'Can we just carry on for a while? Get out of here. I'm finding it really hard to concentrate with all these people tied to stone posts. There's a door ahead. Can we at least got through and see what we have to see next?'

Floyd kicked one of Levin's floppy arms and stood staring at the door. It just stood there in the darkness which surrounded the end of the walkway they were on. Either side was a thick darkness which looked like a sky. There were things twinkling in it, but they seemed very far away. There was no knowing what was going to be the other side of that door and Floyd let Spencer know that. Things shift and move around and now he had no way to track Sam they could be walking in circles for eternity. This wasn't the way it was meant to go! If these Children of Pluto wanted to remain hidden then there was little Floyd could do to get to them... and certainly not before they'd done unspeakable things to Sam.

'There is some small thing you can do to help.' Floyd spoke, bending down, grabbing one of Levin's dead looking hands. 'Imagine what you'd like to see the other side of that door. Think hard. Maybe, just maybe that's what we'll get. Somewhere to rest a while and think, talk this over and try to work out what it is we both need to do. I will remind you that it's your fault entirely that we are having to do this. If you'd not been stupid and fixed it so I had to be with Sam, then none of this would have mattered.'

'And likewise if you'd not messed around and seen to it that I couldn't cross without you, none of this would have happened. Well...' Spencer paused as he lifted Levin's feet from the cobbles. '… it would have happened, but I wouldn't have had to been part of it.'

'Well there's the selfish side of you glowing from every fucking pore! You'd have had me do this alone?'

'Yes... Yes! I would have had you do this alone! If you had what it takes to have done the job yourself we'd not be here now carrying this thing and...'

'Just shut up and think of the place you want behind that door.' Floyd started walking forwards.

'What difference will it make to the final outcome? What does it matter what's there? It'll be another part of this sick game and I'm tired, Floyd... I'm tired of being a pawn on the playing board.'

'You're not a pawn. You're a queen, my darling sweetness.'

Oh funny!

Very amusing.

But he did as Floyd had said. He thought of somewhere he'd like to be. Somewhere calm and peaceful. Somewhere they'd talked about going... the pair of them... a little dream that had never managed to come true for either of them. Spencer closed his eyes and allowed himself to be guided forwards by Floyd.

Spencer kept that image firmly in his head, holding that cold flesh, taking his mind away... he heard, distantly, Floyd saying not to let go... keep walking forwards.

Birds were singing.

A sound of running water.

The smell of grass... the smell of something clean and wondrous. He could feel a light breeze and with that breeze was a faint waft of blossom and...

And it disappeared with a snap.

The door slammed behind him and he heard Floyd hissing between his teeth.

Spencer opened his eyes.

'Nice.' Floyd said, again dropping Levin's head end to the floor. 'Very nice. Coffee.'

It was a room. A large room with a wooden floor which had been stained green and varnished. There were wall hangings showing woodlands and waterfalls, paintings of trees, mirrors, a chandelier with maybe a hundred candles burning brightly. A green couch. Some chairs... a desk with paper and fountain pens. A green rug on the floor. A coffee table with coasters, a jug of coffee and three mugs. An ashtray. A small hideaway, but it hadn't been what Spencer was thinking about. At least not fully. He's been thinking of the woodlands, waterfalls, a lake... grass... it was all here, but in paintings and elaborate wall hangings.

Floyd threw himself to the couch and sniffed at the coffee. Rich, dark... glorious.

'Well done Babes!' Floyd looked over... teeth showing. Spencer took a step back, trod on Levin... nearly fell and righted himself. This was far more like what Floyd would have been thinking of. The slightly over elaborate everything. The too bright, too crass and gauche. The sort of thing someone with absolutely no taste would choose.

The couch was bouncy. Spencer sat beside Floyd... a hand slapped down on his knee and crawled upwards and upwards... Floyd walking his fingers along Spencer's thigh and there was no willpower and nothing left inside of Spencer to pull away to stop him.

The coffee was sweet.

The company wasn't.

Levin didn't move. Spencer wasn't too worried about that. Actually he was not worried at all and could have forgotten he was there if it was not for Floyd sitting staring at him, at Levin, blowing smoke rings, blowing across hot coffee... blowing all chances of them every coming to a real compromise.

The light was blinding.

The sudden change in air pressure made Spencer's ears pop. His eyelids snapped shut but a moment too late. He felt Floyd's hand move away from him... felt coffee splash on his leg... could smell it mixing with the dirt on his clothing. Felt that rush of air as Floyd stood and then the word.

'Oh!'

And it was Floyd's voice and it was a surprised voice yet not, maybe in a bad way.

Spencer creaked his eyelids open a touch. There were bright blobs before his eyes which he attempted to rub away before he realised that the blobs were not on his retina but actually floating around the room and gradually forming into something a bit more solid looking.

'Angard, Lex... how nice of you to pop in and see me.' That was Floyd again and Floyd was not sounding like the happiest bunny in hell.

The two blobs became forms of what looked like men. Tall... average build... bright shining blue eyes... hair that was standing up on end a foot around their heads like a hairy halo... They had on what looked to be green bathrobes and slippers and they sizzled and crackled and snapped and popped as though they were held together purely by electricity.

Floyd bounced a small bow... drew his right hand into a fist and placed it over his heart. He then stood straight with his hands out in front of him, palms up. To Spencer it seemed to be some sort of greeting to a being of a higher rank.

To Floyd that was exactly what it was.

'I don't understand.' Floyd spluttered.

Spencer turned his head to look at the man who rarely bowed down or showed any form of supplication to any being.

'I've not asked you to speak.' One of the glowing things said. Spencer couldn't tell which one as the volume was so great the sound seemed to come from all around him and no mouths opened. The faces, which were like old oil paintings in their smudged beauty, stayed motionless... only the eyes moved and they flickered from side to side constantly like a nystagmus. It made Spencer feel queasy just looking at the constantly twitching eyes.

'We have come to make you an offer.' Again a sound from all around and no idea where it came from. 'This is an offer made because though you have fallen and become much less of a creature than you were meant to be, you are still one of us and we will not permit Them to destroy something we have created. This is the offer. We will send Reid and Lopez back. They will await your arrival. We will take you to Sam where you will recover him and be taken to a place of safety. This is our offer.'

Floyd said nothing, but sat back down again.

An Angelic rescue? The rescuers being rescued? Spencer put his coffee mug down. It clinked on the coaster.

'I'm staying with Floyd.' His own voice sounded like it was being sucked away by something or maybe as though he had a really good pair of ear-plugs in.

'You are leaving.' Floyd muttered.

One of them spoke again. 'You will come with us. If you carry on this foolhardy journey you will both be destroyed. This case has been under review for some time now. We have been in discussion with both sides and we have agreed to do this. They don't want The Children of Pluto around any more than we do. We will destroy them and in exchange you will be ours. Trent will be free, Lopez will be forgiven and given permission to cross. We will break any pact the pair of you... you two have made. You will be free of each other. Isgar will come with us to serve time as a wayward child... as that is what he is.'

'Oh.' Floyd muttered once again.

Spencer didn't like the sound of this. 'I'm not here because of a pact we made. I'm not here because I have to be. I'm here because this is what I chose. I chose this path and I'm staying on it. I'm not leaving Floyd. And surely it's my place to forgive Levin and not yours and that's not something I'm going to do.'

'You will agree or Sam will die.' Booming voice reverberating off the walls, making the chandelier shake and wax drip to the floor.

'You will agree.' Floyd echoed. 'Go with them Spence.'

'And what will happen to you? I can't cross without you.'

'They just said... they'll break that. You'll be free... just fuck off Spencer... You're becoming a burden and I need to get hold of Sam. Go with Levin. Try to find a place inside of that gentle soul I know you have and forgive what he did. These two will sort it all out. This is the end. This is where it finally finishes and I'm rid of your forever. Go! Fuck off! Get the hell out of here. I don't want you with me, Babes... I don't need you. It was fun once but it's no longer. You loath me. I don't like you too much, it's an addiction. Seeing myself without you tethered to me is going to be very strange.'

'We will help you.' One of the two said. 'A recovery programme has been put in place.'

'I'm not leaving!' Spencer was now standing... moving around the coffee table and walking towards them. 'I've come this far. I've been with Floyd, or Isgar, whatever you want to call him, since I was a child! He is the one constant in my life. The one and only thing I can rely upon... not always good things, but it's there. It's solid. It's how it is and I'm not leaving now. I'm not abandoning him when we are this close to the end! I might not like him. I might hate what he does to me, and how he treats me and others. I might be repulsed by what he's got in his bag and what he's done to be the vile thing he's become, but he's _my_ vile thing! I do love him. I do need him. And I'm not leaving him. I will go with him to rescue Sam. After all the crap I've been through, all the lies I've told, all the pain and anguish and trouble... do you seriously think I'd do that and now step back?'

'Wow.' Floyd was staring at Spencer. 'That's a hell of a thing to say. Is it truth?'

'Of course it's truth! I'd not be here now if it wasn't! I could have stayed up top with The Old Woman. I could have waited for you there, but did I? NO! I'm here. I'm at your side. I'm doing what you ask of me because even though you set Levin up to kill me and end me, I trust you!'

'OK.' Floyd's eyes were burrowing into Spencer's mind... searching out truth from lies and he pulled back with a surprised look on his face. 'After all that?'

'After all that.' Spencer confirmed.

'Very well.' Floyd then turned to the two Rescue Ranger Angels... 'I'd appreciate your help in recovering Sam. I'd like Levin to be taken somewhere safe. I would very much like Spencer to be able to cross without me... and I'll come with you for this rehabilitation thing you spoke of. If you can help me, I'm all yours.'

Spencer wanted to complain, but wasn't that really what he'd wanted in the first place. Hadn't he been angry with Floyd for joining the pair of them in the way he had? What would this mean? That he'd never see him again? That he'd wander the forest alone? Forever? That's not what he wanted. Not what he wants now.

'I would like to go wherever Floyd goes.' He spoke softly, not sure if he'd said the words or if they'd just been inside his own head.

Blue eyes carried on flickering back and forth. The two glowing saviours said nothing.

It was Floyd who spoke and he seemed quite resigned to it all now. 'Spence, Babes... my love and my life... just go.. just go and be safe and well and happy. Please. For me? Go for me? You'd refuse a man his dying wish? They're offering to free us from everything. It will be as though I'd never had my ashes scattered on your grave. You can pass over in the way you wanted to. Find your loved ones. Be happy! Be happy for me Spence.'

'I'm not crossing over without you.' It was ridiculous!

'You're a bloody minded bastard sometimes.' Floyd looked at the two. 'Take Levin. Make him well... let him pass on. Then assist me in finding and helping Sam... allow him to pass over too. Take me back to The Bastion and do whatever it is you wanted to do... reform my mind, give me back some wings or some such, and let Spencer... let him do what he needs to do to be happy. I no longer have any fucking idea what that might be. I thought he didn't want to be with me... now he's saying he does. He's a complex creature.'

The loud voice responded. 'He's human. A dead human. They don't get much less complex than that. Lopez will be taken... Sam will be rescued. You will be trained... The dead human can cross. That is the deal. There is no other. It's that or nothing. We let you carry on and you commit your death as you'd set out to have it be.'

'I'd never set out to die here.' Floyd told them. 'What will happen to Sam? Eventually. After this is done?'

'Now... that is complex. We will decide after we've done what we came to do.'

One of the Angels in a bathrobe and slippers moved sideways, as though he was floating or on skates. Spencer glanced at the feet, but no, they were just slippers. Green and fluffy. He couldn't think why they'd appeared looking like that and Floyd hadn't commented on it or the hair which stuck up and quivered more like a bad case of static electricity than anything else Spencer could think of. He touched his own hair as he thought about it. Wondering if his own was behaving oddly, but it seemed to be its normal aberrant self. The Angel, Spencer didn't know which one was which, though Floyd had given them names, neither had responded to them as such, moved into a very awkward looking curtsy and touched Levin on the forehead.

Snap... pop and a smell of ozone and Levin was gone again.

Relief should have flooded Spencer, but he sat back down again with annoyance pulling at his mind once again. Annoyance that Levin had been saved of whatever was coming next and more of a light rage, bordering on fury that he couldn't stay angry with Floyd.

The Angel stood, smoothed down his bathrobe and flickered his eyes at Floyd who nodded and reached out, taking Spencer's hand in his.

Floyd spoke softly. Regret maybe? Probably not. This was Floyd, not someone who had any ability to feel anything for someone other than greed. 'Babes, Spencer, darling Dr Reid... Allow them to help you. Wipe away the rot and become what makes you happy. Go with them. Please go.'

But going with them would not make Spencer happy. The perfection and life he was after was not something real. It was not something he thought could happen. It was a dream. He needed to be with Floyd, he knew that. He needed... so very much needed that adrenaline rush that spiked through his body, sending him into that frenzy of panic. He could not imagine a life not either desperately needing someone to be at his side, or when that person was there, that feeling that any moment, for no reason, there would be an explosion of pain and a roaring terror.

Spencer nodded at Floyd. Gave him a small smile. Dimples at the corners of his mouth. 'I could leave.' He sighed. 'I could flick out of existence as Levin just did and maybe then I'd live a fulfilled life with no worries and nothing hiding in the shadows. No danger. Love. Joy. Some sort of paradise around me... I'd perhaps get what I was after when I visualised this room. Waterfalls, birds singing. Wild flowers, warm light on my skin... no bugs... I could lay in the open and look at the sky and hear the rushing of the water and the splashing of fish. I could turn my head and see deer standing there watching me.'

'That's correct.' Floyd's rictus grin didn't look as though he liked what Spencer had just said. 'You'll love it, my sweet. Love it. Take the offer and run. You'll not get a better one.'

Spencer cracked his knuckles. Bit at the side of his thumbnail. Gave Floyd a sideways glance, waiting for that horrible grin to disappear.

'I don't want to live my life in a Disney cartoon.' He finally muttered. 'I don't want that. It's like telling someone who has had a life of...' He paused and turned slightly to look at Floyd properly, '… it's like telling someone who has spent their entire life flying that they can't do that any more. They can't have the thrill of diving in the air and feeling the force of the wind in their face. It would be like saying to a long distance runner that it was fine... they'd take his legs... don't have to run ever again. Some people like running, Floyd. Some people need that. Yes you fill me with terror, you hurt me physically and mentally, but I also love the way you wrap your hands around my throat. I love that sticky bloody feeling... the marks on my skin, the scratches and bites, the prickle of fear when you suddenly go silent. I don't want to live an eternity having picnics by the lake, like some old maid. I want you... you as you are... not some fixed and changed you. I love you as you are. I adore you to your core, Floyd, so don't ask me to leave you now, because I'm not going to.'

Floyd put his hand on Spencer's face... he ran fingers lightly over the skin. 'We will be bound in a perpetual spinning hate. We will try to hurt each other over and again. We'll never rest. Never sleep properly... never have what we want or need, because I can't give you that high you're after.'

'You don't know what I'm after. You don't know what makes me high.' Spencer replied.

And so Floyd stood. Looked at the two blue eyed creatures. He bowed again, did that odd salute with his hand. Held them out in front of him.

'I thank you. I ask you to take us both to Sam. To rescue his scurvy little arse and then release them. I'll come with you for this rehabilitation thing you spoke of. I'm willing to give it a go. I'm not sure what you can do with Sam... he's of my flesh, but he was created in hell.'

'Demons, Angels... all of the same ilk, just with different views in life. You don't have to worry about our powers over Sam. We will escort him somewhere. He'll be safe.'

'Thank you.' Floyd then knelt on the floor facing Spencer. 'This is goodbye for now. Wait for me. You never know when you'll see me again. Beware of the shadows, Babes. Don't swim in that lake and believe in me. I'll find you. I'll come for you. Just give me time.'

Floyd then jumped to his feet, turned to the two and said he was ready.

Spencer also got to his feet, but no amount of complaining was going to get him what he wanted. It was the end. This was it. This was how it finished. Floyd stepping back and letting one of the two come forwards. Spencer was looking directly at Floyd; a look of pain on Floyd's face and a look of confusion on Spencer's.

Something went POP.

For a short moment he stood in darkness and as that slowly slipped away he realised that yes, he could hear running water. He opened his eyes and wanted to howl and rage and rant with what felt like exhausted betrayal.

There stood The Blond. The one who had put a knife to his throat and killed him. The one who had done it for money and who Spencer would never forgive. Levin was barefoot, topless and wearing the knee length pyjama bottoms and that smug look on his damned face! That look of triumph! Spencer would have ripped it off there if The Old Woman wasn't standing at Levin's side looking.

'This is not what I wanted.' Spencer made that clear. 'I told Floyd I wished to go with him.'

The Old Woman put out a hand. A welcoming hand. A grey hand with what looked like blue and dark grey road map scrawled on the back of them. He had no inclination to go to her! They were in this together! All of them! Floyd, Levin, Sam... this crone! Damn them all!

'This isn't what I wanted!' Spencer heard himself shouting. 'I need him!'

Levin smiled. A strange smile which seemed to involve just his lips and no other part of his face. A fake expression. He rolled his eyes at Spencer as though to say he was making a hideous fuss about nothing.

'You want me to beg forgiveness?' He asked, slipping to his knees and holding his hands out in front of him. 'Please, Spencer, I beg you... from the bottom of my heart... I ask your forgiveness.'

Yet Spencer was shaking his head. No.

No.

No.

This was not going to happen.

'I shall wait until Floyd returns with Sam.' He looked away from the son-of-a-bitch and glared at The Old Woman. 'I can cross? I can wait for him over there?'

'You must cross. It's your destiny. You can wait on the other side.'

Spencer looked at the small and shallow river. He looked at the two men standing the other side staring as though looking into the far distance. Would he have to join them? The half naked man with the braids and nut coloured skin... the other wearing lace and fancy silks and brocades. Floyd's lost loves. Would he, Spencer, be stuck there with them waiting?

'He's never going to cross, is he?' Spencer said. 'He has no intention of being over there with them or with me. He's gone to Sam.'

The Old Woman gave a small one shouldered shrug. 'I've never been able to work out what really motivates him. You have to understand that he's still young – a child – a silly boy who was given chance after chance to rectify what he'd done wrong. Yet he chose to go his own way, complain when things went wrong... I have no way to predict what he will do. They will attempt to cool his burning soul. They will pour ice into him and try to make them like themselves. Heartless, without mercy... they are soldiers, Spencer... Vigilantes... Warriors of the gods. Some are gentle, kind and forgiving, yet others will take their pound of flesh. It's not my place to intervene. You must cross over and wait for him there. Or you can cross and choose a path of a different kind. Take heart, Spencer. This is a new beginning. A bright and wonderful one.'

She then turned to Levin who had walked now to the edge of the small cold river. He had his toes in the mud and was staring across at the trees, at the two men waiting there. He turned and gave Spencer that smile of his again. Such an empty face. A beautiful but empty face. Spencer had no idea what Floyd could see in him; this tall skinny, pretty thing. Just looking at him made his stomach twist and cramp. Spencer put a hand on his stomach and watched Levin turn again and quickly splash across. It looked harmless. Levin didn't fall down and scream in pain. Spencer watched as Levin said a few words to the two standing there, then he ran off and disappeared between the trees.

'Go.' The Old Woman told Spencer. 'There is nothing for you here. Not now. Your anger when you realised what Floyd had done – that has been rectified. You're free. Now it's your turn.'

'And Floyd?'

'Is not for you to worry about.'

'He's dead?'

She didn't answer, but took Spencer by the elbow and led him forwards. He kicked off his shoes, pulled off his socks and rolled up the legs of his brown cords. The shoes and socks he left on the grass and slowly he walked to the mud, felt the hand leaving his arm... felt the pull of the other side. Even if he'd wanted to stop now, he couldn't. The water rushed over his toes. Ice cold and cleansing. Slippery stones under his cold and bare feet.

The water reached mid shin level at the deepest and then became shallow and sandy. He walked up the slope the other side and quickly turned to look back.

There was nothing there. No river. No grass. No Old Woman. Just deep and bright green forest. He could hear rushing water, but it was a long way distant. There were singing birds, the smell of rain on a hot day, berries on the bushes, and air so clean that it was almost painful to breathe.

'We've been waiting.' The voice was deep and friendly. Spencer looked to see who had been talking and frowned at him. 'I'm Anthony. This is Little River. We've been waiting.'

Spencer blinked at the pair of them and then turned in a circle, trying to locate the grass, trying to find where he'd just come from.

'You can't go back.' A light and sing-song voice of Little River. 'There is no way back. We've been waiting a long time.'

'For Floyd?'

They laughed. Laughed and wiped tears from their eyes. Anthony scraped his fingers through long wavy brown hair and Little River coughed into his hand.

'Wait for Floyd? No... why would we do that? He left me for dead in a ditch in the forest. My bones were never recovered. My flesh was eaten away by woodland animals. I was left to rot like the trash he thought I was. For the years I was with him he beat me, abused me... did unspeakable things to me and when he grew bored he disposed of me and moved on. Why in the name of the gods would I wait for him?' Anthony seemed surprised and amused.

Little River spoke... again that voice which seemed to sing rather than speak. 'He befriended my tribe. We took him in like a brother. He then betrayed us and killed me, throwing me into a river with my neck torn open. I also ask why I would stand here and wait for Floyd?'

'Then who are you waiting for?'

'You.' They said in unison. 'We've been waiting to see who this great lover is. Who this person is who he couldn't bring himself to destroy by his own hands... still can't bring himself to do it. Never will be able to do it. We want to know what makes you so damned Special, Spencer. We want to peel back your layers and discover what is underneath.'

Anthony smiled. It was a nice smile. Nothing threatening there. 'Literally, peel back the layers, Spencer. We want to see what makes you tick.'

Little River then laughed. A high sounding, childish giggle. 'Oh... Anthony... he thought this was paradise... Floyd never told him. He believed all he was told. What a fool. What a sad and stupid fool. Now where are we going to start?'

'I'm going to start by tearing out his heart and seeing what is engraved upon it.' Anthony smirked at Spencer.


End file.
